SONGS  OF  THE 
COWBOYS 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


SONGS  OF  THE 
COWBOYS 

Compiled  by 

N.  HOWARD  THORP 

("Jack"  Thorp) 

With  an  introduction  by 
ALICE   CORBIN   HENDERSON 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

<3Tfoe  fltoctfibe  prcs?  Cambcibge 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1908  AND  IQZI,  BY  N.  HOWARD  THORP 
ALL  RKfHTS  RESERVED 


TS 


TO  THE  FOLLOWING  COW-GIRLS  AND  PUNCHERS 
THIS  LITTLE  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 

Many  of  you  I  have  worked  with  in  the  past,  on  the  range, 
the  trail,  and  in  the  branding  pens.  All  of  you  I  have 
known  well.  In  looking  over  this  list  I  find  the  names  of 
some  who  will  never  read  this,  as  unfortunately  they  've 
answered  the  call.  Those  who  are  alive  I  heartily  thank 
for  having  given  me  their  assistance  hi  collecting  these 
songs.  May  this  little  book  tend  to  recall  the  times,  good 
and  tough,  we  had  together. 

N.  Howard  ("Jack"}  Thorp 


Miss  Windsor 

Bronco  Sue 

Miss  Jean  Beaumondy 

Miss  Belle  Starr 

Miss  Kitt  Collins 

Battle  Axe 

Jim  Hagan 

Frank  Hayes 

Sam  Murray 

Walker  Hyde 

Walt  Roberts 

Joe  Cotton 

Al  Roberts 

Tom  Williamson 

Sam  Jackson 


Jim  Falls 
Tom  Hudspeth 
"Sally"  White 
Jack  Moore 
Dick  Wilson 
Tom  Beasley 
Doc  Henderson 
Shorty  Liston 
John  Caldwell 
Dodge  Sanford 
Joel  Thomas 
Jim  Brownfield 
Clabe  Merchant 
John  Collier 
Randolph  Reynolds 


Kearn  Carico 


418992 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


I  WISH  to  acknowledge  the  use  of  songs  from  the 
following  authors:  James  Barton  Adams,  Charles 
Badger  Clark,  Larry  Chittenden,  Alice  Corbin, 
Austin  Corcoran,  J.  W.  Foley,  Henry  Herbert 
Knibbs,  Phil  Le  Noir. 

"A  Cowboy's  Prayer";  "A  Border  Affair,"  and 
"High-Chin  Bob"  are  published  by  permission  of 
Richard  G.  Badger  from  Sun  and  Saddle  Leather, 
by  Badger  Clark;  "Sky-High";  "Old  Hank"; 
"The  Little  Cow-girl";  "Pecos  Tom";  "'Light, 
Stranger,  'Light";  "Women  Outlaws";  "Old 
Paint,"  and  "What 's  Become  of  the  Punchers?" 
by  N.  Howard  Thorp,  were  published  in  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  in  August,  1920;  and  Phil 
LeNoir's  "Olf  Dynamite"  and  "Down  on  the  Olf 
Bar-G  "  in  the  same  number  of  the  magazine.  The 
cowboy  version  of  "High-Chin  Bob,"  by  Charles 
Badger  Clark,  was  published  in  Poetry  in  August, 
1917.  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs's  "Punchin'  Dough" 
appeared  in  the  Popular  Magazine. 

Phil  LeNoir  is  the  author  of  Rhymes  of  the  Wild 
and  Woolly  (Phil  LeNoir,  Las  Vegas,  N.M.); 
Charles  Badger  Clark,  of  Sun  and  Saddle 
Leather  and  Grass  Grown  Trails  (Richard  G. 
Badger,  Boston) ;  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs,  of  Songs 
of  the  Outlands,  Riders  of  the  Stars  and  Songs  of 
the  Trail  (Houghton  Miffiin  Company,  Boston). 


viii  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Larry  Chittenden,  author  of  "The  Cowboys' 
Christmas  Ball"  in  this  volume,  has  a  book  of 
songs  called  Ranch  Verses  (G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
New  York). 

N.  ILT. 


CONTENTS 


ARIZONA  BOYS  AND  GIRLS,  THE I 

ARROYO  AL'S  COW-PONY 3 

BIBLICAL  COWBOY,  THE 4 

BILLY  THE  KID  or  WILLIAM  H.  BONNEY         .      .  6 

BOOZER,  THE 9 

BORDER  AFFAIR,  A 10 

BRONC  PEELER'S  SONG II 

BRONCO  JACK'S  THANKSGIVING 12 

BACKING  BRONCO 14 

BUCKSKIN  JOE 15 

CALIFORNIA  TRAIL 18 

CAMP-FIRE  HAS  GONE  OUT,  THE 20 

CHASE  OF  THE  O  L  C  STEER 21 

CHOPO 23 

CHUCK-TIME  ON  THE  ROUND-UP        ....  24 

COW-CAMP  ON  THE  RANGE,  A 30 

COWBOY  AT  CHURCH,  THE 31 

COWBOY  AT  WORK,  THE 34 

COWBOYS'  CHRISTMAS  BALL,  THE      ....  35 

COWBOY'S  DREAM,  THE 40 

COWBOY'S  LAMENT,  THE 41 

COWBOY'S  LIFE,  THE 44 

COWBOY'S  MEDITATION,  THE 46 

COWBOY'S  PRAYER,  A 47 

COWBOY'S  PRIZE,  A 48 

COWBOYS  VICTIMIZED 49 

COWMAN'S  PRAYER,  THE 52 


CONTENTS 


CROOKED  TRAIL  TO  HOLBROOK,  THE       ...  53 

CROSSING  THE  DIVIDE 55 

DAN  TAYLOR 57 

DEER  HUNT,  A 58 

DOWN  ON  THE  OL'  BAR-G 60 

DREARY,  DREARY  LIFE,  THE 6l 

DHNG  COWBOY,  THE 62 

END  OF  THE  YAQUI  TRAIL,  THE 63 

FATE  OF  THE  BEEF  STEER,  THE 65 

FIGHTIN'  MAD 66 

FORGET  THE  EAST 67 

FRIJOLE  BEANSES 68 

GAL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME,  THE 69 

GET  ALONG,  LITTLE  DOGIES 70 

GOL-DARNED  WHEEL,  THE 71 

GREASER  JOE'S  PLACE          74 

GREAT  ROUND-UP,  THE 75 

HELL  IN  TEXAS 77 

HELL-BOUND  TRAIN,  THE 79 

HIGH-CHIN  BOB 81 

JOHN  GARNER'S  TRAIL  HERD 84 

JOLLY  COWBOY,  THE 85 

LAST  LONGHORN,  THE 88 

LAS  VEGAS  REUNION 91 

"'LIGHT,  STRANGER,  'LIGHT" 92 

LITTLE  ADOBE  CASA 93 

LITTLE  COW-GIRL,  THE 94 

LITTLE  JOE,  THE  WRANGLER 96 

LOVE  ON  THE  RANGE 98 

MAN  NAMED  HODS,  A 99 

MULE-SKINNERS,  THE 101 

MUSTANG  GRAY          102 

MY  LITTLE  BROWN  MULE          104 

NEW  NATIONAL  ANTHEM 105 


CONTENTS  xi 


NIGGER    '"LASSES":     THREE-BLOCK    BRONCO- 
BUSTER  106 

NIGHT-HERDING  SONG 108 

OLD  CHISHOLM  TRAIL,  THE 109 

OLD  COWMAN,  THE .      .  112 

OL»  DYNAMITE 113 

OLD  GRAZIN'  BEN 115 

OLD  HANK 116 

"OLD  NORTH" 117 

OLD  PAINT 118 

OLD  PAINT 119 

OLD-TIME  COWBOY 121 

"OLD  TROUBLE,"  A  L  RANCH  COLORED  COOK    122 

ON  THE  DODGE         123 

OVERLAND  STAGE,  THE 124 

PECOS  RIVER  QUEEN,  THE 126 

PECOS  TOM 127 

PRAIRIE  SONG,  A 129 

PROSPECTOR,  THE 130 

PUNCfflN'  DOUGH 131 

RAILROAD  CORRAL,  THE 132 

RAMBLING  COWBOY,  THE 134 

SAM  BASS 135 

SKY-HIGH 138 

SONG  OF  THE  RANGE,  A 140 

SPECKLES         142 

TEN  THOUSAND  TEXAS  RANGERS         .      .      .      .143 

TENDERFOOT,  THE 146 

TEXAS  COWBOY,  THE 148 

THANKSGIVING  ON  THE  RANCH 151 

THREE-BLOCK  TOM 153 

TOP  HAND 156 

U  S  U  RANGE,  THE 158 

WESTERN  LIFE 160 


xii  CONTENTS 


WESTWARD  HOI 161 

WHAT'S  BECOME  OF  THE  PUNCHERS?     .      .       .162 

WHEN  BOB  GOT  THROWED 164 

WHOSE  OLD  COW? 166 

WINDY  BILL  ...  168 

WOMEN  OUTLAWS 170 

ZEBRA  DUN,  THE      ...  I7I 


INTRODUCTION 


WE  talk  in  the  East  of  a  public  for  poetry,  and  when 
we  use  this  term  we  are  usually  thinking  of  the  pub- 
lic that  will,  or  will  not,  be  prevailed  upon  to  buy  the 
books  of  poetry  regularly  issued  by  the  standard 
Eastern  publishers.  But  there  is  in  this  country  a 
considerable  public  for  poetry  of  which  no  account 
is  taken  in  the  yearly  summaries  of  The  Publishers' 
Weekly;  that  is,  the  public  that  enjoys  and  creates 
folk-poetry  in  the  United  States,  a  public  much 
larger  and  more  varied  than  we  imagine.  In  this 
connection  we  have  the  story  of  a  cowboy  down  on 
his  luck  who  had  a  collection  of  cowboy  songs 
printed  (some  of  which  he  had  written  himself)  and 
sold  enough  copies  of  the  little  volume  to  set  him- 
self up  in  business  again.  This  does  n't  mean  that 
he  sold  enough  to  buy  a  new  outfit  —  "a  forty- 
dollar  saddle  on  a  twenty-dollar  horse  "  —  and  start 
punching  cattle  again.  No;  the  sum  made  on  the 
little  paper-covered  volume  was  very  much  more 
than  that;  it  would  have  made  any  Eastern  poet 
jealous.  And  the  book  was  sold,  not  at  news  stands 
or  book  stores,  but,  like  the  old  broad-sheet  bal- 
lads, at  cow-camps  and  round-ups  and  cattle-fairs. 
The  title  of  this  little  book  was  Songs  of  the  Cow- 
boys, the  collector,  N.  Howard  Thorp,  and  the  book 
was  set  up  by  an  Estancia  print-shop  in  1908.  Mr. 
Thorp  himself  was  the  author  of  five  of  the  songs 


INTRODUCTION 


in  this  volume,  later  included  in  Mr.  John  A.  Lo- 
max's  collection  of  Cowboy  Songs  —  "  Chopo,"  "  The 
Pecos  River  Queen,"  "Little  Joe,  the  Wrangler." 
"Whose  Old  Cow?  "  and  "Speckles,"  this  last  re- 
printed in  Mr.  Lomax's  book  under  the  title  of 
"Freckles;  A  Fragment,"  just  as  it  came  from  the 
hands  of  the  local  printer  who  had  lost  half  the  copy. 

The  present  collection  is,  therefore,  an  enlarged 
edition  of  this  little  volume  of  1908,  with  much  new 
material,  not  the  least  interesting  of  which  are  the 
twenty-five  songs  by  the  author. 

As  a  cowboy  poet,  N.  Howard  Thorp  —  better 
known  as  "Jack  Thorp"  to  his  many  friends  in  the 
Southwest  —  is  the  genuine  thing.  He  is  an  old- 
time  cattleman  and  cowpuncher,  and  his  songs 
are  the  fruit  of  experience.  His  gift  is  instinctive 
and  naive,  like  that  of  all  real  cowboy  poets,  and 
its  charm  is  precisely  in  its  fresh  and  "  unliterary  " 
quality. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  this  country?"  I 
asked  "Jack  "  Thorp  one  day  soon  after  I  met  him. 
We  were  sitting  on  the  well-curb  in  the  plaza  of  an 
Indian  pueblo  watching  a  Rain-Dance. 

"You  see  those  cedars  up  there  on  the  hills?  "  he 
said,  looking  above  the  roof-tops  to  the  foothills. 
"Well,  I  planted  them." 

It  was  a  typical  cowboy  answer,  evasive  and  sym- 
bolic, and  it  indicated  perfectly  well  that  he  might  be 
regarded  as  part  of  the  soil.  The  cowboy  does  n't 
"loosen  up"  until  he  knows  you  fairly  well.  When 
he  does,  it  is  usually  worth  while.  I  recall  now  in- 
numerable reminiscences  of  "Jack"  Thorp's  when 


INTRODUCTION 


he  was  in  more  expansive  mood,  of  which  I  wish 
I  could  give  the  exact  tone  and  flavor. 

His  account  of  the  "  Sooners  "  at  the  opening-up 
of  the  Indian  Territory  —  Guthrie's  first  citizen : 
The  hour  set  for  taking  up  claims  was  twelve  o'clock 
in  the  morning;  but  when  they  came  upon  this  old 
man  at  noon  he  had  three  acres  ploughed  with  a 
pair  of  oxen,  which  he  claimed  to  have  done  since 
sunrise!  His  stories  of  the  early  days  in  Lincoln 
County,  New  Mexico  —  Pat  Garrett  unveiled  (see 
postscript  to  "Billy  the  Kid,"  by  which  there  hangs 
a  tale).  .  .  .  Running  down  a  bunch  of  stolen  cattle 
through  the  Four  Corners  country,  i.e.,  Arizona, 
New  Mexico,  Colorado,  and  Utah  —  some  of  the 
wildest  country  still  to  be  found  in  these  States.  .  .  . 
Old  days  in  the  backwoods  in  Texas,  scene  of  "  The 
Little  Cow-girl,"  where  "they  may  not  know  the 
national  anthem,  but  they  all  know  Turkey  in  the 
Straw."  .  .  .  Early  times  along  and  across  the  Mex- 
ican border,  when  "headin*  west  from  San  Antone  " 
was  a  part  of  the  regular  ritual.  .  .  .  Also  an  expe- 
rience of  only  a  few  years  back,  which,  as  it  illus- 
trates a  bit  of  international  diplomacy,  may  be 
worth  telling  here. 

Mr.  Thorp  was  driving  some  cattle  from  Old  Mex- 
ico up  to  Lamy,  near  Santa  Fe.  As  it  happened,  he 
was  unarmed,  since  on  the  way  down  from  Tucson, 
Arizona,  to  El  Sasabe  on  the  line,  he  fell  in  with  a 
priest  who  used  up  all  the  ammunition  for  Thorp's 
six-gun  shooting  prairie  dogs.  Finding  when  he  got 
to  El  Sasabe  that  he  could  n't  get  any  more  car- 
tridges of  the  right  size,  Thorp  tossed  the  gun  into  a 
drawer  of  the  priest's  secretary,  and  went  into  Mex- 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

ico  with  two  other  men  whom  he  had  hired  on  the 
border.  Having  found  the  herd  and  started  back 
with  it,  these  three  met  a  company  of  about  forty 
Villistas.  The  ragged  general  (nothing  lower  than  a 
general  in  Villa's  army)  accosted  the  outfit.  "Are 
you  armed?"  he  asked  Thorp.  "Yes."  "And  your 
men?"  Again  Thorp  said,  "Yes."  "Who  gave  you 
the  right  to  carry  arms  in  Mexico?"  asked  the  gen- 
eral. "The  Governor  of  the  State  of  Texas,"  said 
Jack.  There  was  a  world  of  remembered  history  in 
that  answer,  and  the  general,  in  spite  of  his  supe- 
rior numbers,  permitted  them  to  pass  unmolested, 
though  eyeing  the  cattle  hungrily.  If  Thorp  had 
said,  "The  President  of  the  United  States,"  it  would 
have  been  of  small  avail,  as  the  Republic  of  Texas 
is  still  far  more  real  to  most  Mexicans  than  is  our 
flourishing  Union,  of  which  it  is  now  a  member. 

All  this  is  but  a  suggestion  of  the  extraordinary 
richness  of  a  life  lived  during  the  frontier  period  in 
the  Southwest  —  a  period  that  is,  happily,  not  yet 
ended,  although  old-timers  will  tell  you,  as  the  old 
settler  in  the  Organ  Mountains  said,  when  he  found 
a  few  cattle  with  strange  brands  straying  into  his 
eighty-mile  solitude,  "It 's  gettin'  too  crowded  here 
—  guess  1 11  have  to  move  on. " 

Monotonous  on  the  surface,  the  cowboy's  life  is 
usually  an  adventurous  one.  When  I  asked  Mr. 
Thorp  for  a  sketch  of  his  life,  he  said,  "Just  say 
that  I  've  been  everything  but  a  telegraph  operator 
or  a  preacher."  (But  if  he  hasn't  preached,  he 
once  gave  a  series  of  lectures  on  the  Holy  Land 
with  stereopticon  slides!) 
The  task  of  trying  to  give  a  portrait  of  a  man  of 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

this  character  is  like  trying  to  give  a  composite 
picture  of  Texas,  New  Mexico,  Arizona,  and  the 
Indian  Territory  during  the  last  thirty  years. . . . 

The  hundred  songs  that  make  up  this  book  are 
typical  and  genuine  cowboy  songs;  the  river  and 
hobo  and  outlaw  songs  that  are  also  a  part  of  the 
cowboy's  repertory  having  been  omitted.  A  number 
of  songs  that  belong  more  specifically  to  the  Cen- 
tral States  have  also  been  omitted.  Wherever  pos- 
sible, Mr.  Thorp  has  given  the  names  of  the  authors 
of  the  songs  and,  when  these  could  not  be  discov- 
ered, the  cowboys  who  sang  them,  or  the  place 
where  he  found  them. 

The  fact  that  most  of  these  songs  are  of  known 
authorship,  or  that  some  of  them  appeared  origi- 
nally in  print,  in  no  way  lessens  their  genuine  folk- 
quality.  Otherwise,  many  of  the  old  English  and 
Irish  broad-sheet  ballads  which  have  come  down  to 
us  through  oral  tradition,  but  were,  as  the  term  in- 
dicates, originally  printed,  could  not  be  called  folk- 
songs. (As  indubitable  examples  of  folk-songs 
with  a  printed  origin  and  of  individual  authorship, 
one  may  mention  the  "Suwanee  River"  and  "  Old 
Kentucky  Home"  and  other  songs  by  Stephen 
Foster.  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  is  another  folk-song, 
which,  if  the  identity  of  its  celebrated  author  were 
forgotten,  would  be  included  in  all  the  folk-lore 
collections.) 

The  more  one  examines  the  evidence,  the  more 
one  is  convinced  that  it  is  the  use  of  a  song,  rather 
than  its  origin,  which  determines  what  is  known  as 
folk-song.  Conditions  favorable  to  the  production 


xviii INTRODUCTION 

or  preservation  of  folk-song  are :  a  communal  unity 
of  interest  or  occupation,  and  a  certain  degree  of 
isolation  from  the  larger  world  of  affairs,  and  from 
continuous  contact  with  printed  sources.  These  are 
the  conditions  which  produced  the  cowboy  songs  — 
probably  our  largest  body  of  native  folk-songs,  ex- 
cept, of  course,  the  folk-songs  of  negro  source  or 
inspiration.  (The  songs  of  the  American  Indians 
are  available  only  in  translation.) 

Cowboy  songs  are,  generally  speaking,  of  two 
types;  first,  songs  transmitted  by  purely  oral  tradi- 
tion; and,  second,  songs  originally  printed,  clipped 
from  a  local  newspaper  or  magazine,  fitted  to  a  fa- 
miliar air,  and  so  handed  down  from  one  cowboy  to 
anoth  er,  b  ecoming  genuine  tolk-songs  intheprocess. 
During  the  transition  a  certain  amount  of  reshap- 
ing often  takes  place.  Verses  may  be  added  or  left 
out,  or  the  wording  altered  —  these  changes  usu- 
ally tending  toward  a  greater  simplicity  and  direct- 
ness and  a  more  graphic  cowboy  lingo .  An  inter- 
esting recent  example  of  such  a  reshaping  through 
oral  transmission  is  furnished  by  Badger  Clark's 
"The  Glory  Trail,"  sung  among  the  cowboys  in 
southern  Arizona  under  the  title  of  "High-Chin 
Bob." 

The  differences  between  the  two  versions  may  be 
noted  by  referring  to  the  original  in  Mr.  Clark's 
Sun  and  Saddle  Leather.  Obviously  some  one 
found  the  song  somewhere  in  print,  adapted  it  to  a 
familiar  tune,  and  passed  it  on.  This  is  the  history 
of  a  number  of  the  songs.  Again,  others  have  been 
built  upon  well-known  airs;  "The  Cowboy's  Dream" 
is  sung  to  the  tune  of  "My  Bonnie  Lies  Over  the 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

Ocean,"  and  Jack  Thorp's  "Little  Joe,  the  Wrang- 
ler "  was  composed  to  the  tune  of  "The  Little  Old 
Log  Cabin  in  the  Lane." 

Many  of  the  cowboy  songs,  and  almost  all  of  the 
earlier  ones,  belong  to  the  first  type;  they  exist  in- 
dependent of  any  printed  origin  and  have  come 
down  to  us  through  oral  tradition.  They  are  anony- 
mous because  their  authors  have  been  forgotten, 
but  this  does  not  mean  that  they  were  not  in  the  first 
place  of  individual  authorship;  although  songs  of 
such  loose  and  catchy  structure  as  "The  Old  Chis- 
holm  Trail,"  "Old  Paint,"  or  "The  Deer  Hunt"  lend 
themselves  easily  to  composite  touches.  Nor  are  all 
of  the  earlier  songs  without  antecedents.  "The 
Dying  Cowboy"  was  modeled  upon  a  sea-chantey 
and  "The  Cowboy's  Lament  "has  been  traced  to  a 
popular  Irish  military  song  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury —  the  cowboy  who  had  the  old  song  in  his  mem- 
ory may  well  have  been  of  that  race.  Indeed,  the 
accent  of  many  of  the  songs  has  a  distinctly  Celtic 
echo: 

There  was  a  rich  old  rancher  who  lived  in  the  country  by; 
He  had  a  lovely  daughter,  on  whom  I  cast  my  eye. 

But  such  adaptation  and  borrowing,  far  from  prov- 
ing the  cowboy  songs  merely  "derelicts,"  as  Pro- 
fessor Gerrould  called  them  in  a  recent  number  of 
the  New  York  Evening  Post,  is  a  very  usual  process, 
not  only  with  folk-poets,  but  with  other  poets  as 
well.  Burns  modeled  many  of  his  poems  on  well- 
known  songs  and  airs  of  the  countryside,  and  they 
are  not  therefore  merely  "derelicts";  nor  is  Mr. 
Yeats 's  "  When  I  am  Old  and  Gray  and  Full  of 


INTRODUCTION 


Sleep"  a  "derelict"  because  Ronsard  fathered  it. 
In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to  see  the  crop- 
ping-up  of  an  old  theme,  although  perfectly  un- 
consciously and  with  no  debt  to  Villon,  in  Mr. 
Thorp's  "What's  Become  of  the  Punchers  We 
Rode  with  Long  Ago?"  This  is  a  case,  not  of  bor- 
rowing, but  of  the  eternal  recurrence  of  certain  old 
themes. 

To  test  American  cowboy  songs  by  the  finest 
flower  of  English  or  European  balladry,  as  is  some- 
times done  by  distinguished  folk-lore  students  who 
come  over  here  to  obtain  survivals  of  their  own 
songs,  in  the  Kentucky  mountains  and  elsewhere, 
is  of  course  a  mistake.  Cowboy  ballads  represent 
a  folk-tradition  still  in  the  making  —  their  greatest 
antiquity  is  only  a  little  over  a  half  century  —  and 
the  European  ballads  are  several  centuries  old,  and 
have  the  advantage  of  a  literary  tradition  even  older. 
Indeed,  this  tradition  is  so  distinctly  literary  in 
origin  that,  but  for  the  oral  use  and  transmission  of 
the  songs,  one  might  hesitate  to  call  themfolk-Eongs ! 
But  to  say,  as  Mr.  Cecil  Sharp  does,  that  "The  cow- 
boy has  been  despoiled  of  his  inheritance  of  tra- 
ditional song;  he  has  nothing  behind  him,"  is  again 
a  mistake.  There  are  various  degrees  of  sophis- 
tication among  the  cowboys,  as  one  can  see  in 
these  songs.  James  Russell  Lowell,  when  he  wrote 
the  "Biglow  Papers,"  was  not  thereby  despoiled 
of  his  literary  inheritance,  nor  was  John  Hay  when 
he  wrote  "  JimBludso,"  or  Charles  Godfrey  Leland 
when  he  wrote  the  Hans  Breitmann  Ballads  The 
lack  of  literary  associations  in  the  cowtoy  songs  is 
not  necessarily  an  indication  of  a  corresponding  lack 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

of  tradition  or  background  in  their  composers.  Amer- 
ican cowpunchers  have,  indeed,  been  drawn  from 
all  walks  in  life,  but  the  majority  of  them  belong 
to  that  same  pioneer  stock  which  settled  the 
East,  the  Middle  West,  the  Far  West,  and  the 
Southwest,  in  turn;  the  same  sort  of  pioneer  stock 
that  produced  Mark  Twain  and  Bret  Harte. 

Whatever  the  cowboy's  "inheritance  of  tradi- 
tional song  "  may  or  may  not  have  been  (and  it  was 
that  of  the  general  American  public  of  the  period), 
the  fact  that  counts  is  his  creation  of  a  new  tradi- 
tion —  a  tradition  of  which  these  songs  are  the 
most  authentic  record.  What  one  appreciates  in 
the  survivals  of  the  old  English  folk-songs  is  pre- 
cisely the  literary  association,  and  their  beauti- 
fully simple  but  highly  evolved  poetic  form.  But 
the  associations  of  cowboy  songs  are  directly  local 
and  immediate,  and  perhaps  these  can  be  appreci- 
ated fully  only  by  those  familiar  with  the  life  that 
has  produced  them. 

It  is  quite  true  that  the  world  of  the  cowboy  songs 
is  less  imaginary  than  actual.  It  was  a  concrete 
world  the  cowboy  lived  in  —  he  could  n't  escape 
too  much  into  the  world  of  the  imagination.  If  he 
did,  he  might  forget  and  let  the  old  cow  die  bogged 
down,  or  slide  to  perdition  from  the  back  of  the 
bucking  bronco.  His  world  is  not,  it  is  true,  peo- 
pled with  fairies  or  ghostly  apparitions  or  knights 
in  steel  armor.  Instead,  he  writes  of  dying  long- 
horns,  buffaloes,  mule-skinners,  bucking  broncos, 
stampeding  cattle,  and  his  hard-handed  companions 
of  the  trail  and  chuck-wagon.  His  armor  is  his  own, 
and  he  celebrates  it  —  chaps,  slicker,  spurs,  saddle 


INTRODUCTION 


reata,  and  horse.  His  life  is  —  cattle;  but  those 
who  think  this  life  prosaic  overlook  the  hidden  ro- 
mance, the  lonely  and  tragic  and  humorous  events 
of  the  round-up,  the  long  trail-drive,  or  the  night- 
watch. 

Whenever  the  cowboy  poet  deserts  the  actual 
world,  it  is  to  dream  of  a  cowboy  heaven.  (And, 
after  all,  was  not  just  such  an  arbitrarily  arranged 
heaven  the  basic  fabric  of  Dante's  dream?)  During 
the  long  night-watch,  the  cowboy  looks  up  through 
the  clear  atmosphere  to  the  star-besprinkled  heav- 
ens and  wonders  about  the  Hereafter  in  terms 
amusingly  translated  from  his  daily  occupation: 

And  I'm  scared  that  I'll  be  a  stray  yearling, 

A  maverick  unbranded  on  high, 
And  get  cut  in  the  bunch  with  the  "  rustles  ". 

When  the  boss  of  the  riders  goes  by. 

He  carried  the  same  terminology  into  his  court- 
ship songs,  and  indeed  into  all  his  songs,  and 
thereby  creates  or  perpetuates  a  new  idiom.  (In  fact 
the  cowboys  have  contributed  a  new  idiom  to  our 
national  speech.  We  never  have  a  big  party  con- 
vention without  certain  headlines  appearing:  "Pol- 
iticians 'milling  around ';  leaders  afraid  of  a  'stam- 
pede.' ")  About  this  idiom  in  his  songs,  the  cowboy 
poet  is  far  more  exacting  than  about  any  question 
of  rhyme  or  meter;  and  any  departure  from  the 
correct  vernacular  or  handling  of  the  various  leath- 
ers is  at  once  detected  as  a  mark  of  the  tenderfoot 
poet. 

The  tradition  is,  then,  intact  in  these  cowboy 
songs,  and  we  may  accept  them  for  what  they  are  — 


INTRODUCTION  jcriii 

naive  records  of  the  hard  and  free  life  on  the  range, 
celebrating  such  adventures  as  belong  to  virgin 
soil,  pioneer  hardships,  dangers,  and  fun.  Fun  is, 
indeed,  one  of  the  chief  characteristics  of  these 
songs,  and  it  is  a  fun  that  includes  the  same  sort 
of  humorous  exaggeration  in  which  Mark  Twain 
excelled. 

My  excuse  for  touching,  in  this  introduction, 
upon  the  pedagogical  folk-aspect  of  these  songs, 
which  depends,  after  all,  upon  their  spontaneous 
appeal  to  those  for  whom  they  were  written,  is 
simply  that,  in  appropriate  phraseology,  I  would 
rather  be  caught  "heeled,"  and  these  are  questions 
which  will  undoubtedly  crop  up  in  connection  with 
the  book. 

But  those  who  know  and  appreciate  the  life  cel- 
ebrated in  these  songs  will  need  no  introduction 
or  explanation;  and  it  is  for  such  readers  and  old- 
timers  particularly  that  the  book  is  intended.  If 
Mr.  Thorp  had  written  a  preface  for  the  book,  his 
gesture  would  probably  have  been  as  simple  as 
that  of  the  Mayor  of  Las  Vegas,  who  said  at  the 
recent  Cowboy  Reunion,  "The  town  is  yours, 
Boys,  take  care  of  it." 

ALICE  CORBIN  HENDERSON 
Santa  Fe 
New  Mexico 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


THE  ARIZONA  BOYS  AND  GIRLS 

Dortt  know  the  author.  Heard  it  sung  by  Kitt  Collins  in 
Deming,  New  Mexico. 

Come,  all  of  you  people,  I  pray  you  draw  near, 
A  comical  ditty  I  promise  you'll  hear. 
The  boys  in  this  country  they  try  to  advance 
By  courting  the  ladies  and  learning  to  dance. 

The  boys  in  this  country  they  try  to  be  plain  — 
Those  words  that  you  hear  you  may  hear  them 

again 

With  twice  as  much  added  on  if  you  can. 
There's  many  a  boy  who  thinks  he's  a  man. 

They'll  go  to  their  parties,  their  whiskey  they'll 

take, 

And  out  in  the  dark  their  bottles  they'll  break; 
You'll  hear  one  say,  "There's  a  bottle  round  here; 
So  come  around,  boys,  and  we'll  all  take  a  share." 

There  is  some  wears  shoes  and  some  wears  boots, 
But  there  are  very  few  that  rides  who  don't  shoot; 
More  than  this  I'll  tell  you  what  they'll  do, 
They'll  get  them  a  watch  and  a  ranger  hat  too; 

They'll  go  in  the  hall  with  spurs  on  their  heel; 
They'll  get  them  a  partner  to  dance  the  next  reel, 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


Saying,  "How  do  I  look  in  my  new  brown  suit, 
With  my  pants  stuffed  down  in  the  top  of  my  boot  ?  " 

Now,  I  think  it's  quite  time  to  leave  off  these 

lads, 

For  here  are  some  girls  that's  fully  as  bad; 
They'll  trim  up  their  dresses  and  curl  up  their 

hair, 
And  like  an  old  owl  'fore  the  looking-glass  stare. 

The  girls  in  the  country  they  grin  like  a  cat, 

And  with  giggling  and  laughing  don't  know  where 

they're  at; 
They  think  they're  pretty,  and  I  tell  you  they're 

wise, 
But  they  could  n't  get  married  to  save  their  two  eyes. 

You  can  tell  a  good  girl  wherever  she's  found; 
No  trimming,  no  laces,  no  nonsense  around; 
With  a  long-eared  bonnet  tied  under  her  chin,  — 
She  '11  marry  you  if  you  are  broke  or  if  you  have  the 
tin. 

They'll  go  to  church  with  their  snuff-box  in  hand, 
They  '11  give  it  a  tap  to  make  it  look  grand ; 
Perhaps  there  is  another  one  or  two 
And  they'll  pass  it  around  and  it's  " Madam,  won't 
you?" 

Now,  I  think  it's  quite  time  for  this  ditty  to  end; 
If  there 's  any  one  here  that  it  will  offend, 
If  there's  any  one  here  that  thinks  it  amiss, 
Just  come  round  and  give  the  singer  a  kiss. 


ARROYO  AL'S  COW-POKY 


ARROYO  AL'S  COW-PONY 
By  J.  A.  Squires,  Helena,  Montana 

I  first  heard  this  sung  in  a  cow-camp  in  Guadalupe  Moun- 
tains, New  Mexico. 

I  took  a  trip  this  summer  to  the  market, 

And  I  struck  an  Eastern  city  where  they  sell  you 

tubs  of  beers; 
I  was  feelin'  pretty  yowlish  and  I  could  n't  say  my 

name, 
When  I  wound  up  somehow  'nuther  at  a  high-toned 

polo  game. 

There  were  sunburned  doods  cavortin'  on  some 

ponies  in  a  lot, 
And  they  whacked  a  little  ball  till  it  traveled  like  a 

shot; 
I  could  n't  savvy,  nohow,  and  I  vowed  that  I  was 

through, 
When  I  spied  a  feller  ridin'  on  a  pony  that  I  knew. 

It  was  that  there  buckskin  bronco  that  I  rode  for 

the  Circle  Bar; 
He  was  clipped  and  oiled  and  powdered,  but  I  knew 

each  old-time  scar; 
I  had  lost  him  when  Bear  Hawkins  played  an  extra 

ace  and  jack, 
And  I'd  allus  had  a  longin'  fer  to  git  that  pony  back. 

Well,  he  sorter  stopped  and  snorted  when  I  give 

an  old-time  "Yip!" 
And  he  bucked  until  his  rider  hit  the  ground  upon 

his  hip; 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


And  he  came  a-runnin'  to  me  and  I  jumped  upon 

his  back, 
And  he  pitched  for  sheer  enjoyment  when  I  hit  his 

flank  a  whack. 

Well,  I  rode  across  the  open  and  I  stooped  down  on 

the  run, 
And  picked  up  the  polo  mallet  (fer  the  player  he 

was  done), 
And  I  hit  that  ball  a  crack,  sir,  and  it  sailed  plum 

o'er  the  fence, 
And  the  crowd  just  howled  with  pleasure,  fer  they 

thought  the  sport  immense. 

Well,  it  cost  me  just  six  hundred  fer  to  git  my  little 

bronk, 
And  to  have  that  player  patched  up  from  his  heels  to 

injured  conk; 
But  I  got  my  old  cow-pony  —  and  jest  hear  this  one 

thing  more : 
Don't  whisper  "polo"  to  him  or  he'll  buck  like 

Satan,  shore  I 

THE  BIBLICAL  COWBOY 
Sent  me  by  Jim  Hagan,  of  Tulsa,  Oklahoma 

All  day  long  on  the  prairies  I  ride, 

Not  even  a  dog  to  trot  by  my  side; 

My  fire  I  kindle  with  chips  gathered  round, 

My  coffee  I  boil  without  being  ground. 

I  wash  in  a  pool  and  wipe  on  a  sack; 
I  carry  my  wardrobe  all  on  my  back; 


THE  BIBLICAL  COWBOY 


For  want  of  an  oven  I  cook  bread  in  a  pot, 
And  sleep  on  the  ground  for  want  of  a  cot. 

My  ceiling  the  sky,  my  floor  is  the  grass, 
My  music  is  the  lowing  herds  as  they  pass ; 
My  books  are  the  brooks,  my  sermons  the  stones; 
My  parson  the  wolf  on  his  pulpit  of  bones. 

And  then,  if  cooking  is  not  complete, 
You  can't  blame  me  for  wanting  to  eat. 
But  show  me  a  man  that  sleeps  more  profound 
Than  the  big  puncher-boy  stretching  out  on  the 
ground. 

My  books  teach  me  ever  consistence  to  prize, 
My  sermons  that  small  things  I  should  not  despise ; 
My  parson  remarks  from  his  pulpit  of  bones 
That  fortune  favors  those  who  look  out  for  their  own. 

And  then  between  me  and  love  lies  a  gulf  wide: 
Some  lucky  fellow  may  call  her  his  bride. 
My  friends  gently  hint  I  am  corning  to  grief, 
But  men  must  make  money  and  women  have  beef. 

But  Cupid  is  always  a  friend  to  the  bold, 

And  the  best  of  his  arrows  are  pointed  with  gold. 

As  society  bans  me,  so  savage  I  dodge, 

And  the  Masons  would  ball  me  out  of  their  lodge. 

If  I  had  hair  on  my  chin  I  might  pass  for  the  goat 
That  bore  all  the  sins  in  the  ages  remote; 
But  why  it  is  I  cannot  understand, 
That  each  of  the  patriarchs  owned  a  big  brand. 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


Abraham  emigrated  in  search  of  a  range,       ,. 
And  when  water  was  scarce  he  wanted  a  change ; 
Old  Isaac  owned  cattle  in  charge  of  Esau, 
And  Jacob  punched  cows  for  his  father-in-law. 

He  started  in  business  way  down  at  bed  rock, 

And  made  quite  a  stake  at  handling  stock; 

Then  David  went  from  night-herding  to  using  a 

sling; 

And  winning  the  battle  he  became  a  great  king; 
Then  the  shepherds,  while  herding  the  sheep  on  a 

hill, 
Got  a  message  from  heaven  of  peace  and  good 

will. 


BILLY  THE  KID 

or 

WILLIAM  H.  BONNEY 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Down  in  Lincoln  the  native  women  still  scare  their  chil- 
dren with  the  threat  that  Bilito  will  come  and  get  them  if 
they  don't  behave. 

Bustin'  down  the  canyon, 
Horses  on  the  run, 
Posse  just  behind  them, 
'T  was  June  first,  seventy-one. 

Saddle  guns  in  scabbards, 

Pistols  on  saddle  bow, 

The  boys  were  ridin'  for  their  lives  — 

The  Kid  en  Alias  Joe. 


BILLY  THE  KID 


Thirty  miles  west  of  the  Gila 
They  bade  the  posse  good-bye, 
For  they  could  n't  keep  up  with  the  light- 
weight Kids, 
Now  matter  how  hard  they'd  try. 

From  the  land  of  the  Montezuma, 
Past  the  hills  of  the  Mogollons, 
By  night  en  day  they  made  their  way 
Till  they  landed  in  Tombstone. 

Those  were  frontier  towns,  old  pardner; 
'T  was  a  game  of  take  en  give, 
And  the  one  who  could  draw  the  fastest 
Was  the  only  one  who  'd  live. 

Whiskey  en  women  en  poker, 

Monte  en  Faro  en  Stud, 

Just  a  short  wild  race,  who  'd  keep  the  pace 

Would  land  in  a  river  of  blood. 

Fightin'  en  drinkin'  en  gamblin', 
Nigger  en  Mex  en  White; 
'T  was  a  riot  of  sin,  let  the  best  man  win; 
'T  was  drink,  when  called,  or  fight. 

En  every  one  claimed  a  woman, 
Though  none  of  their  claims  would  stand 
'Gainst  the  Kid,  who  was  quicker 'n  lightning 
With  a  gun  in  either  hand. 

Believing  that  John  H.  Tunstall 
Was  the  man  who  was  in  the  right, 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


He  offered  him  his  services 
In  the  Lincoln  County  fight. 

The  Kid  rode  with  Brewer's  posse 
Who  avenged  John  Tunstall's  loss, 
Killing  William  Morton,  en  Baker 
Roberts  en  Joe  Ross. 

Locked  in  the  Dolan  house  in  Lincoln, 
Then  used  as  a  county  jail, 
Handcuffed  en  with  a  double  guard, 
Trailing  a  ball  en  chain, 

He  killed  his  guards,  Bell  en  Olinger, 
In  the  jail  yard  in  daylight, 
Stole  the  horse  of  the  probate  clerk 
En  on  him  made  his  flight. 

Caught  a-napping  at  last  in  Sumner, 
In  Pete  Maxwell's  room  one  night, 
Not  knowing  he  was  waylaid, 
Not  knowing  with  whom  to  fight; 

A  chance  shot  fired  by  Garrett, 

A  chance  shot  that  found  its  mark; 

'T  was  lucky  for  Pat  the  Kid  showed  plain, 

While  Garrett  was  hid  in  the  dark. 

If  Garrett  was  game,  I  don't  know  it; 
He  never  appeared  so  to  me; 
If  any  of  you  fellows  think  so, 
I'll  refer  you  to  Oliver  Lee. 

P.S.  Oliver,  if  you  happen  to  see  this,  don't  shoot  through 
the  water-tank  and  drown  me.  Jack 


THE  BOOZER 


THE  BOOZER 

Cut  this  out  of  a  Colorado  newspaper 

I'm  a  howler  from  the  prairies  of  the  West! 

If  you  want  to  die  with  terror  look  at  me ! 

I'm  chain-lightning  —  if  I  ain't,  may  I  be  blessed! 

I'm  the  snorter  of  the  boundless  prairie! 

He's  a  killer  and  a  hater! 

He's  the  great  annihilator! 

He's  a  terror  of  the  boundless  prairiel 

I'm  the  snoozer  from  the  upper  trail! 
I'm  the  reveler  in  murder  and  in  gore! 
I  can  bust  more  Pullman  coaches  on  the  rail 
Than  any  one  who's  worked  the  job  before. 

He's  a  snorter  and  a  snoozer! 

He's  the  great  trunk  line  abuser! 

He's  the  man  who  puts  the  sleeper  on  the  rail! 

I'm  the  double-jawed  hyena  from  the  East! 
I'm  the  blazing  bloody  blizzard  of  the  States! 
I'm  the  celebrated  slugger;  I'm  the  Beast! 
I  can  snatch  a  man  bald-headed  while  he  waits! 

He 's  a  double-jawed  hyena! 

He 's  the  villain  of  the  scena! 

He  can  snatch  a  man  bald-headed  while  he  waits! 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


A  BORDER  AFFAIR 

By  Charles  Badger  Clark,  Jr. 

Sung  by  Orville  Cox,  a  Taos  Cowboy 

Spanish  is  the  lovin'  tongue, 
Soft  as  music,  light  as  spray: 
'T  was  a  girl  I  learnt  it  from, 
Livin'  down  Sonora  way. 
I  don't  look  much  like  a  lover, 
Yet  I  say  her  love  words  over 
Often  when  I  'm  all  alone  — 
"Mi  amor,  mi  corazon." 

Nights  when  she  knew  where  I'd  ride 
She  would  listen  for  my  spurs, 
Fling  the  big  door  open  wide, 
Raise  them  laughin*  eyes  of  hers, 
And  my  heart  would  nigh  stop  beatin' 
When  I  heard  her  tender  greetin', 
Whispered  soft  for  me  alone  — ^ 
"Mi  amor,  mi  corazon!  " 

Moonlight  in  the  patio, 
Old  Senora  noddin'  near,  , 
Me  and  Juana  talkin'  low 
So  the  Madre  could  n't  hear  — 
How  those  hours  would  go  a-flyin'l 
And  too  soon  I  'd  hear  her  sighin' 
In  her  little  sorry  tone  — 
"Adios,  mi  corazon!" 


But  one  time  I  had  to  fly 
For  a  foolish  gamblin*  fight, 


BRONC  PEELER'S  SONG 


And  we  said  a  swift  good-bye 

In  that  black  unlucky  night. 

When  I  'd  loosed  her  arms  from  clingin* 

With  her  words  the  hoofs  kept  ringin' 

As  I  galloped  north  alone  — 

"Adios,  micorazon!" 

Never  seen  her  since  that  night  — • 
I  kaint  cross  the  Line,  you  know. 
She  was  Mex,  and  I  was  white ; 
Like  as  not  it's  better  so. 
Yet  I've  always  sort  of  missed  her 
Since  that  last  wild  night  I  kissed  her; 
Left  her  heart  and  lost  my  own  — 
"Adios,  mi  corazon!" 

BRONC  PEELER'S  SONG 

Authorship  unknown.   First  heard  sung  by  L.  Brennon, 
at  Indian  Tanks,  New  Mexico. 

I've  been  upon  the  prairie, 

I've  been  upon  the  plain, 

I've  never  rid  a  steamboat, 

Nor  a  double-cinched-up  train. 

But  I've  driv  my  eight-up  to  wagon 

That  were  locked  three  in  a  row, 

And  that  through  blindin'  sand-storms, 

And  all  kinds  of  wind  and  snow. 

There  never  was  a  place  I've  been 
Had  any  kind  of  wood : 
We  burn  the  roots  of  bar-grass 
And  think  it's  very  good. 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


I've  never  tasted  home  bread, 
Nor  cakes  nor  muss  like  that; 
But  I  know  fried  dough  and  beef 
Pulled  from  red-hot  tallow  fat. 

I  hate  to  see  the  wire  fence 

A-closin'  up  the  range ; 

And  all  this  fillin'  in  the  trail 

With  people  that  is  strange. 

We  fellers  don't  know  how  to  plough, 

Nor  reap  the  golden  grain; 

But  to  round  up  steers  and  brand  the  cows 

To  us  was  allus  plain. 

So  when  this  blasted  country 

Is  all  closed  in  with  wire, 

And  all  the  top  as  trot  grass 

Is  burnin'  in  Sol's  fire, 

I  hope  the  settlers  will  be  glad 

When  rain  hits  the  land, 

And  all  us  cowdogs  are  in  hell 

With  a  "set"  joined  hand  in  hand. 

BRONCO  JACK'S  THANKSGIVING 

By  James  Barton  Adams 

Heard  this  recited  by  a  young  lady  at  a  Cowboys'  Reunion 
at  Las  Vegas,  New  Mexico,  and  afterwards  learned  the 
author's  name. 

'T  was  this  time  jest  a  year  ago  on  this  Thanks- 

givin'  Day, 
That  me  an'  Bronco  Jack  stood  up,  an'  pa  gave  me 

away. 


BRONCO  JACK'S  THANKSGIVING       13 

An'  Parson  Billy  spoke  the  words  that  made  us 

man  and  wife, 

To  run  as  double-header  team  along  the  trail  of  life. 
We  had  a  combination  feast,  half  weddin'  dinner  an' 
The  other  half  Thanksgivin'  an'  I  tell  you  it  was 

grand; 
An'  everybody  that  was  there  allowed  the  dance 

jest  tuk 
The  cake  from  any  ranch  event  that  they  had  ever 

struck. 

They  all  kep'  sayin'  Jack  was  wild,  an'  some  allowed 

that  he 

Was  hardly  fit  to  share  the  life  o'  sich  gal  as  me. 
But  I  was  of  a  reckless  turn,  an'  tol'  'em  that  I  hoped 
To  have  success  in  tamin'  him  when  I  had  got  him 

roped. 
There 's  quite  a  change  of  f eelin'  now,  f er  ever  sence 

the  day, 
We  j'ined  our  hands  an'  tuk  the  vows  to  make  a 

double  play, 

He 's  proved  as  good  a  husban'  as  a  woman  ever  got, 
An'  all  the  gals  is  jealous  of  the  thorrerbred  I 

caught. 

The  only  thing  that's  rattled  him  was  when  the 

Master  sent 
Two  great  big  bouncin*  baby  twins  to  us:  the  said 

event 
Jest  seemin'  fer  to  break  him  up,  him  sayin',  sort 

o'  gruff, 
That  one  sich  infant  music-box  he  thought  was 

quite  enough; 


14  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

But  now  he's  sort  o'  reconciled:  I  of'n  hear  him 

talk 

About  'em  bein'  pedigreed  an'  fanoy  blooded  stock; 
An'  though  he  yit  holds  to  it  that  I  played  it  rather 

bold, 
I  know  he  would  n't  part  with  one  fer  twice  its 

weight  in  gold. 

As  we  was  settin'  here  last  night  a-talkin'  'bout  the 

day, 
An'  all  that  we  was  thankful  fer,  I  said,  in  a  joMn' 

way: 
"Now,  tell  me,  honest  Injun,  Jack,  dead  earnest 

an'  fer  fair, 
If  you  ain't  filled  with  gratitude  a-lookin'  at  that 

pair?" 
He  gazed  down  at  the  sleepin'  kids  a-layin'  side  by 

side, 
With  what  I  sort  o'  'magined  was  a  look  o'  daddy 

pride. 
An'  said:  "They're  fine  as  silk  an'  I  ain't  makin' 

any  roar, 
But  I  am  mighty  thankful  that  there  was  n't  any 

more!" 


BUCKING  BRONCO 

By  Belle  Star,  Indian  Territory 

Written  about  1878.  Song  has  been  expurgated  by  me. 
The  author  was  a  member  of  a  notorious  gang  of  out- 
laws, but  a  very  big-hearted  woman.  I  knew  her  well. 

My  love  is  a  rider,  wild  broncos  he  breaks, 
Though  he's  promised  to  quit  it,  just  for  my  sake. 


BUCKSKIN  JOE  15 

He  ties  up  one  foot,  the  saddle  puts  on, 

With  a  swing  and  a  jump  he  is  mounted  and  gone. 

The  first  time  I  met  him,  't  was  early  one  spring, 

Riding  a  bronco,  a  high-headed  thing. 

He  tipped  me  a  wink  as  he  gayly  did  go, 

For  he  wished  me  to  look  at  his  bucking  bronco. 

The  next  time  I  saw  him,  't  was  late  in  the  fall, 

Swinging  the  girls  at  Tomlinson's  ball: 

He  laughed  and  he  talked  as  we  danced  to  and 

fro,- 
Promised  never  to  ride  on  another  bronco. 

He  made  me  some  presents,  among  them  a  ring; 
The  return  that  I  made  him  was  a  far  better  thing; 
'T  was  a  young  maiden's  heart,  I'd  have  you  all 

know 
He'd  won  it  by  riding  his  bucking  bronco. 

Now,  all  you  young  maidens,  where'er  you  reside, 
Beware  of  the  cowboy  who  swings  the  rawhide, 
He  '11  court  you  and  pet  you  and  leave  you  and  go 
In  the  spring  up  the  trail  on  his  bucking  bronco. 

BUCKSKIN  JOE 

Author  unknown.  First  heard  this  recited  by  a  medicine- 
vendor  in  Waco,  Texas,  on  the  public  square. 

'T  was  a  calm  and  peaceful  evening  in  a  camp  called 

Arapahoe, 
And  the  whiskey  was  a-running  with  a  soft  and 

gentle  flow; 


16  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

The  music  was  a-ringing  in  a  dance-hall  'cross  the 

way, 
And  the  dancers  was  a-swinging  just  as  close  as 

they  could  lay. 

People  gathered  round  the  tables  a-betting  of 
their  wealth, 

And  near  by  stood  a  stranger  who  had  come  there 
for  his  health. 

He  was  a  peaceful  stranger,  though  he  seemed  to 
be  unstrung; 

For  just  before  he'd  left  his  home  he'd  been  sep- 
arated from  one  lung. 

Near  by  at  a  table  sat  a  man  named  Hankey  Dean, 
A  tougher  man  than  Hankey  leather  chaps  had 

never  seen. 
But  Hankey  was  a  gambler  and  he  sure  did  hate 

to  lose; 
And  he  had  just  parted  with  a  sun-dried  stack  of 

blues. 

He  arose  from  the  table,  on  the  floor  his  last  chip 
flung, 

And  cast  his  fiery  glimmers  on  the  man  with  just 
one  lung. 

"No  wonder  I  've  been  losing  every  bet  I  made  to- 
night 

When  a  nucker  and  a  tenderfoot  was  'tween  me 
and  the  light. 

"Look  here,  little  stranger,  do  you  know  who  I  am?" 
"Yes,  and  I  don't  care  a  copper-colored  damn." 


BUCKSKIN  JOE  17 

The  dealers  stopped  their  dealing  and  the  players 

held  their  breath; 
For  words  like  those  to  Hankey  were  a  sudden  flirt 

with  death. 

"Listen,  gentle  stranger,  I'll  read  my  pedigree: 
I'm  known  for  handling  tenderfeet  and  worser 

men  than  thee ; 
The  lions  on  the  mountains  I've  drove  them  to 

their  lairs ; 
The  wild-cats  are  my  playmates  and  I've  wrestled 

grizzly  bears; 

"Why,  the  centipedes  can't  sorter  mar  my  tough  old 

hide, 
And  rattlesnakes  have  bit  me  and  crawled  off  and 

died. 
I'm  as  wild  as  the  wildest  horse  that  ever  roamed 

the  range ; 
The  moss  grows  on  my  teeth  and  wild  blood  flows 

through  my  veins. 

"I'm  wild  and  woolly  and  full  of  fleas, 

And  never  curried  below  the  knees. 

Now,  little  stranger,  if  you  '11  give  me  your  address  — 

How  would  you  like  to  go,  by  fast  mail  or  express?  " 

The  little  stranger,  who  was  leaning  against  the  door, 
Picked  up  a  hand  of  playing  cards  that  were  scat- 
tered on  the  floor. 

Picking  out  the  five  o'  spades,  he  pinned  itto  the  door, 
And  then  stepped  backward  some  twenty  steps  or 
more. 


i8  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

He  pulled  out  his  life-preserver  and  with  a  "  one, 

two,  three,  four," 

Blotted  out  a  spot  with  every  pistol  roar ; 
For  he  had  traveled  with  a  circus,  and  had  only  quit 

that  day. 
"I  have  one  more  left,  kind  sir,  if  you  wish  to  call 

the  play." 

Then  Hank  stepped  up  to  the  stranger,  and  this  is 
the  way  he  spoke: 

"Why,  the  lions  in  the  mountains  —  that  was 
nothing  but  a  joke ; 

Never  mind  about  the  extra  —  you  are  a  bad  shoot- 
ing man, 

And  I'm  a  meek  child  and  as  harmless  as  a  lamb." 

CALIFORNIA  TRAIL 
By  Kate  Childs  ("Montana  Kate") 

Written  about  1869.  I  heard  it  sung  first  on  Pecos  River, 
at  Horse  Head  Crossing,  in  1900,  by  Sam  Murray. 

List,  all  you  California  boys, 
And  open  wide  your  ears, 
For  now  we  start  across  the  plains 
With  a  herd  of  mules  and  steers. 
Now  bear  in  mind,  before  you  start, 
That  you'll  eat  jerked  beef,  not  ham, 
And  antelope  steak,  oh,  cuss  the  stuff  1 
It  often  proves  a  sham. 

You  cannot  find  a  stick  of  wood 
On  all  this  prairie  wide; 
Whene'er  you  eat  you've  got  to  stand 
Or  sit  on  some  old  bull-hide. 


CALIFORNIA  TRAIL  19 

It's  fun  to  cook  with  buffalo  chips 
Or  mesquite  green  as  corn,  — 
If  I'd  once  known  what  I  know  now 
I  'd  have  gone  around  Cape  Horn. 

The  women  have  the  hardest  time 

Who  emigrate  by  land ; 

For  when  they  cook  out  in  the  wind 

They're  sure  to  burn  their  hand. 

Then  they  scold  their  husbands  round, 

Get  mad  and  spill  the  tea,  — 

I'd  have  thanked  my  stars  if  they'd  not  come 

out 
Upon  this  bleak  prairie. 

'Most  every  night  we  put  out  guards 

To  keep  the  Indians  off. 

When  night  comes  round  some  heads  will  ache, 

And  some  begin  to  cough. 

To  be  deprived  of  help  at  night, 

You  know  is  mighty  hard, 

But  every  night  there's  some  one  sick, 

To  keep  from  standing  guard. 

Then  they're  always  talking  of  what  they've 

got, 

And  what  they  're  going  to  do ; 
Some  will  say  they  're  content, 
For  I  've  got  as  much  as  you. 
Others  will  say,  "I'll  buy  or  sell, 
I'm  damned  if  I  care  which." 
Others  will  say,  "Boys,  buy  him  out, 
For  he  does  n't  own  a  stitch." 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


Old  raw-hide  shoes  are  hell  on  corns 

While  tramping  through  the  sands, 

And  driving  a  jackass  by  the  tail  — 

Damn  the  overland, 

I  would  as  leaf  be  on  a  raft  at  sea, 

And  there  at  once  be  lost. 

John,  let's  leave  the  poor  old  mule, 

We'll  never  get  him  across. 


THE  CAMP-FIRE  HAS  GONE  OUT 

Author  unknown.  First  heard  this  sung  in  San  Andreas 
Mountains.  I  think  it  was  by  'Gene  Rhodes. 

Through  progress  of  the  railroads  our  occupation's 

gone; 
So  we  will  put  ideas  into  words,  our  words  into  a 

song. 

First  comes  the  cowboy;  he  is  pointed  for  the  west; 
Of  all  the  pioneers  I  claim  the  cowboys  are  the  best ; 
You  will  miss  him  on  the  round-up;  it's  gone,  his 

merry  shout,  — 
The  cowboy  has  left  the  country  and  the  camp-fire 

has  gone  out. 

There  is  the  freighters,  our  companions;  you've 

got  to  leave  this  land; 
Can't  drag  your  loads  for  nothing  through  the 

gumbo  and  the  sand. 
The  railroads  are  bound  to  beat  you  when  you  do 

your  level  best; 
So  give  it  up  to  the  grangers  and  strike  out  for  the 

west. 


CHASE  OF  THE  O  L  C  STEER          21 

Bid  them  all  adieu  and  give  the  merry  shout,  — 
The  cowboy  has  left  the  country  and  the  camp-fire 
has  gone  out. 

When  I  think  of  those  good  old  days,  my  eyes  with 

tears  do  fill; 
When  I  think  of  the  tin  can  by  the  fire  and  the  coyote 

on  the  hill. 
I'll  tell  you,  boys,  in  those  days  old-timers  stood  a 

show,  — 
Our  pockets  full  of  money,  not  a  sorrow  did  we 

know. 
But  things  have  changed  now ;  we  are  poorly  clothed 

and  fed. 
Our  wagons  are  all  broken  and  our  ponies  'most  all 

dead. 
Soon  we  will  leave  this  country;  you'll  hear  the 

angels  shout, 
"  Oh,  here  they  come  to  Heaven,  the  camp-fire  has 

gone  out." 

CHASE  OF  THE  O  L  C  STEER 

Sent  me  from  Ogalala,  Wyoming.  Anonymous.    Signed 
Miss 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  O  L  C  Steer, 
With  widely  flaring  horns? 
He  smashes  the  trees  as  he  splits  the  breeze, 
And  the  Cowboy's  rope  he  scorns. 

That  O  L  C's  fame  it  soon  became 
Of  camp-fire  yarns  the  pet; 
"I'll  stake  my  rocks  that  I  get  that  ox," 
Quoth  Ray,  "Who'll  take  my  bet? 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


"Why,  of  course  my  Gray  Buck  horse 
Will  run  on  him,"  he  said. 
"Show  me  his  track.  I'll  bring  him  back, 
I '11  bet,  alive  or  dead." 

Up  Johnny  spoke:  "No  brags  I  make; 
Straight  goods  I  give  you  now: 
I'll  put  my  string  on  anything 
From  a  coyote  to  a  cow." 

Then  up  spoke  Bob:  "With  this  here  job 
You  bet  I'm  going  to  cope; 
Just  you  watch  me  if  you  want  to  see 
How  Texas  punchers  rope." 

These  cowboys  three  for  modesty 
Have  always  been  well  known; 
For  don't  you  know,  unless  they  blow, 
Their  horns  they'd  not  be  blown? 

Meanwhile  the  steer,  devoid  of  fear, 
Was  trailing  o'er  the  Mesa. 
He  sniffed  the  air;  what  did  he  care? 
He  knew  he  was  a  racer. 

With  firm  intent  on  business  bent 
Three  youth  rode  up  the  trail. 
The  steer  he  saw  and  dropped  his  jaw, 
And  then  he  whisked  his  tail. 

The  other  day  I  chanced  that  way: 
That  steer  was  grinning  yet. 
Six  weeks  have  passed;  not  yet  the  last 
Of  why  that  steer  they  did  n't  get. 


CHOPO  23 


If  they  once  begin,  for  hours  they'll  chin, 
And  tell,  although  they  hit  him 
And  ran  all  day,  how  he  got  away, 
And  why  they  did  n't  git  'im. 


CHOPO 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Written  in  Devil's  River,  Texas,  1901,  at  Jeneaw,  or  Juno, 
Lake,  when  in  camp  with  Frank  Wilson.  This  little  horse 
I  got  from  Antelope  George  at  Sierra  Blanco,  was  branded 
O.  /  rode  him  from  Sierra  Blanco  to  Paris,  Texas.  This 
song  was  in  my  first  publication,  copyrighted  in  1908. 

Through  rocky  arroyos  so  dark  and  so  deep; 
Down  the  sides  of  the  mountains  so  slippery  and 

steep; 
You've  good  judgment,  sure-footed,  wherever  you 

go 
You're  a  safety  conveyance,  my  little  Chopo. 

Whether  single  or  double,  or  in  lead  of  a  team, 
Over  highways  or  byways  or  crossing  a  stream, 
You're  always  in  fix  and  willing  to  go 
Whenever  you're  called  on,  my  Chico  Chopo. 

You're  a  good  roping  horse;  you  were  never  jerked 

down; 

When  tied  to  a  steer,  you  will  circle  him  around ; 
Let  him  once  cross  the  string,  and  over  he  '11  go. 
You  sabe  the  business,  my  cow  horse  Chopo. 

One  day  on  the  Llano,  a  hail-storm  began; 
The  herds  were  stampeded,  the  horses  all  ran; 


24  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

The  lightning  it  glittered,  a  cyclone  did  blow; 
But  you  faced  the  sweet  music,  my  little  Chopo. 

Chopo,  my  pony;  Chopo,  my  pride; 
Chopo,  my  amigo;  Chopo  I  will  ride 
From  Mexico's  border  'cross  Texas  Llanos; 
To  the  salt  Pecos  River  I  ride  you,  Chopo. 

CHUCK-TIME  ON  THE  ROUND-UP 

By  Austin  Corcoran,  Grand  Junction,  Colorado 

I  first  heard  it  sung  at  Monte  Vista,  Colorado,  by  Jack 
Brenner. 

It  was  chuck-time  on  the  round-up,  and  we  heard 

"Old  Doughy"  shout  — 
"You  had  better  come  and  get  this  or  I'll  throw  the 

whole  thing  out." 

So  we  headedf  or  the  wagon  like  wild  stampededherd, 
Fearful  every  minute  lest  the  cook  might  keep  his 

word. 

The  way  we  gathered  round  that  mess-box,  scram- 

blin'  for  tools, 
Showed  the  disregard  for  ethics  that  is  taught  in 

other  schools; 
But  what  we  lacked  in  manners  we  made  up  in 

friendly  strife, 
To  see  who'd  get  through  quickest  with  the  stuff 

that  prolongs  life. 

And  "  Old  Doughy  "  stood  and  watched  us  with  the 

pot-hook  in  his  hands 
That  he  used  for  liftin'  covers  from  the  pots  and 

fryin'-pans; 


CHUCK-TIME  ON  THE  ROUND-UP      25 

And  also  used  to  carry  out  remarks  he'd  sometimes 

make 

To  any  thoughtless  rider  who,  in  fear  of  bein'  late, 
Would  ride  too  near  the  pot-rack  and  start  a  lot  of 

dust 
That  would  settle  in   his  kitchen  'til  "Cooke's" 

rage  would  bust. 

For  "Doughy"  is  particular  —  that  is  all  there  is  to 

that; 
But  when  it  comes  to  sour-dough  bread,  we  all 

take  off  our  hat 
To  him,  and  swear  that  no  matter  where  you'd 

a  mind  to  look, 
You'd  never  find  man  to  equal  "Old  Doughy" 

with  the  hook. 

And  when  it  comes  to  feedin'  men  —  that  is,  so 

they '11  stay  fed  — 
And  spend  their  nights  in  slumber  'stead  o*  wres- 

tlin'  with  the  bed, 
Your  city  chef  can  learn  a  lot  from  our  old  round-up 

cook, 
Who  never  learned  a  thing  he  knows  from  recipes 

or  book, 
But  just  practiced  on  us  fellows  'til  he  learnt  all 

there  is  to  know 
About  this  cookin'  business  and  mixin'  sour  dough. 

Oh!  There's  many  ways  of  dinin',  from  what  I've 

read  and  heard, 
From  meals  that's  served  in  courses  to  a  "bottle 

and  a  bird"; 


26  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

But  when  it  comes  to  eatin'  stuff  that  tasted  good 

all  the  way, 
I  would  n't  quit  a  mess-box  for  a  Broadway  cafe. 

For  when  he  slides  the  hooks  along  the  pot-rack, 

piles  on  wood, 
And  while  the  fire  is  burnin'  down  starts  tnixin' 

somethin'  good, 
An'  you  just  keep  a-lookin'  'til  your  eyes  begin  to 

ache, 
And  wonder  what  new  kind  of  dish  "  Old  Doughy" 

's  goin'  to  make. 
He  puts  in  raisins,  sugar,  currants,  and  a  lot  of  other 

stuff, 
'Til  all  at  once  you  realize  you're  goin'  to  have 

"plum  duff." 

Now  I  reckon  in  the  cities  they'd  spell  that  word  in 

French, 
'Til  you  would  n't  know  just  what  they  meant  — 

a  latigo  or  cinch  — 
And  you'd  be  none  the  wiser  when  they  set  it  by 

your  plate, 
Nor,  after  it  was  eaten  could  you  swear  to  what 

you  ate? 

In  fact  you  would  n't  know  'til  mornin'  that  you 

had  really  dined 

And  taken  in  a  lot  of  stuff  your  in'ards  couldn't  grind. 
But  you  get  the  first  reminder  along  about  "last 

guard," 
When  that  "Frenchy"  stuff  starts  quarrelin'  down 

in  your  "front  yard," 


CHUCK-TIME  ON  THE  ROUND-UP   27 

Somethin'  like  the  cattle  that  start  to  "millin'"  in 

the  night, 
And  try  to  quit  their  bed-ground  at  some  imaginary 

fright. 

But  unlike  the  friendly  "Dogies,"  you  can't  sing 

this  stuff  to  sleep, 
For  all  the  music  that  goes  with  it  was  furnished 

while  you  eat. 
An'  perhaps  it's  just  as  well,  for  you  could  n't  sing 

a  note 
With  all  that  sorrow  in  your  pantry  and  that  burnin' 

in  your  throat 
That  is  caused  by  too  much  vintage  of  celebrated 

make, 

Which  early  in  the  evenin'  you  thought  so  nice  to  take ; 
But  later  showed  developments  which  led  you  to 

believe 
That  the  stuff  was  manufactured  from  a  kind  of 

"loco  weed"; 

Then  you  recall  the  bottles  that  were  stored  away 

so  nice, 
With  some  blankets  wrapped  around  'em  in  a  bucket 

of  cracked  ice, 
With  their  golden  yellow  labels  like  the  "Dogies" 

from  Old  Mex, 
And  you  know  it 's  somethin'  extra  by  the  figures  on 

your  checks. 

But  it  differs  from  those  "  Dogies"  that  have  crossed 

the  Rio  Grande, 
For  you  cannot  tell  the  value  by  the  color  or  the  brand. 


28  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

So  you  have  to    take    your    chances    on    what 

"Frenchy"  minds  to  serve, 
And  try  to  catch  the  bedpost  as  it  comes  around  the 

curve; 
Then  commence  an  awful  tussle  when  you  try  to 

ride  the  bunk, 
While  the  "wireless"  keeps  you  posted  on  the 

"  doin'  down  in  front." 

For  you  keep  a-hearin'  rumors  of  an  international 

riot, 
Caused  by  the  cost  of  higher  livin'  on  this  purely 

foreign  diet, 
'Til  you  are  forced  to  take  some  issue  in  the  trouble 

near  at  hand, 
And  try  to  organize  your  forces  to  make  a  final 

stand 

Against  this  food  combine  that  has  got  you  in  its  grip, 
'Til  you  think  you're  in  the  stateroom  of  an  ocean- 

goin'  ship. 

That  seems  to  take  you  further  from  the  scenes  you 

recognize, 
And  you  get  to  wonderin'  how  it  feels  when  a  fellow 

really  dies. 
Still  you  keep  on  hearin'  echoes  of  last  night's  food 

and  song, 
'Til  you  realize   it's  mornin'  and  the  ^"Frenchy 

Revolution's"  on. 
Of  course  you  may  recover,  and  perhaps  you're 

none  the  worse, 
But   for  me  there's   no    "swell"    eatin'    while 

"Frenchy"  drives  the  hearse. 


CHUCK-TIME  ON  THE  ROUND-UP      29 

Oh!  You  who  dine  in  cities,  passing  through  plate- 
glass  doors, 

Winding  in  around  swell  tables  set  on  polished 
marble  floors, 

Followin'  a  darky  who  will  show  you  to  your  seat, 

While  one  will  take  your  hat  and  another  brush 
your  feet  — 

Dinin'  with  fair  ladies  while  sweet  music  fills  the 
room, 

And  you  gladly  tip  the  "leader"  for  the  lady's 
favorite  tune; 

You  who  linger  long  and  listen  to  the  things  you  like 

to  hear 
In  the  swell  cafes  in  cities  that  to  you  are  always 

dear, 
May  think  that  I  am  partial  to  the  "cowboy"  and 

his  "grub," 
But  I've  dined  at  all  those  cafes  and  was  fed  once 

at  a  club, 
And  I've  come  to  this  conclusion,  and  right  here 

I  want  to  say, 
When  you  eat  at  "Cafe  Doughy's"  you  feel  all 

right  next  day, 
For  here  is  "Doughy's"  record,  and  beat  it  if  you 

can  — 
He's  cooked  for  us  for  twenty  years  and  never  lost 

a  man. 


30  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

A  COW-CAMP  ON  THE  RANGE 

Authorship  credited  to  Tom  Mew,  Oklahoma.  First 
heard  it  sung  by  Walker  Hyde,  Three  Rivers,  New 
Mexico. 

Oh,  the  prairie  dogs  are  barking, 

And  the  birds  are  on  the  wing, 

See  the  heel  fiy  chase  the  heifers,  boys!  — 

'T  is  a  first-class  sign  of  spring. 

The  elm  wood  is  budding, 

The  earth  is  turning  green; 

See  the  pretty  things  of  nature, 

That  make  life  a  pleasant  dream! 

I'm  just  living  through  the  winter 
To  enjoy  the  coming  change, 
For  there  is  no  place  so  homelike 
As  a  cow-camp  on  the  range. 
The  boss  is  smiling  sum'tious, 
Radiant  as  the  setting  sun; 
But  we  know  he  ain't  contented, 
For  he  ain't  a-cussin*  none. 

The  cook  is  at  the  chuck-box 
Whistling  "Heifers  in  the  Green," 
Making  baking-powder  biscuits,  boys, 
While  the  pot  is  biling  beans. 
The  boys  untie  their  bedding 
And  unroll  it  on  the  run, 
For  they  are  in  a  monstrous  hurry, 
For  the  supper's  almost  done. 

"Chuck  is  ready  —  come  en  get  it!" 
Cried  the  cook's  familiar  voice 


THE  COWBOY  AT  CHURCH  31 

As  he  climbed  the  wagon  wheel 

To  watch  the  cowboys  all  rejoice. 

Then  all  thoughts  were  turned  with  reverence 

To  a  plate  of  beef  and  beans, 

As  we  grazed  on  beef  and  biscuits 

Like  yeariings  on  the  range. 

To  the  hot  place  with  your  city, 
Where  they  herd  like  frightened  rats 
On  a  range  so  badly  crowded 
There  ain't  room  to  cuss  a  cat. 
This  life  is  not  so  sum'tious, 
I'm  not  longing  for  a  change, 
But  there  is  no  place  so  homelike 
As  a  cow-camp  on  the  range. 

THE  COWBOY  AT  CHURCH 

Author  unknown  to  me,  but  my  hat  off  to  him,  whoever 
he  may  be.  Heard  it  recited  by  a  young  high-school  girl 
at  Montr  ose,  Colorado. 

Some  time  ago  —  two  weeks  or  more 

If  I  remember  well  — 

I  found  myself  in  town,  and  thought 

I'd  knock  around  a  spell; 

When  all  at  once  I  heard  the  bell  — 

I  did  n't  know  't  was  Sunday, 

For  on  the  plains  we  scarcely  know 

A  Sunday  from  a  Monday  — 

A-calling  all  the  people 
From  the  highways  and  the  hedges, 
And  all  the  reckless  throng 
That  tread  ruin's  ragged  edges. 


32  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

To  come  and  hear  the  pastor  tell 
Salvation's  touching  story, 
And  how  the  new  road  misses  hell 
And  leads  you  straight  to  glory. 

I  started  by  the  chapel  door, 

But  something  urged  me  in, 

And  told  me  not  to  spend  God's  day 

In  revelry  and  sin. 

I  don't  go  much  on  sentiment, 

But  tears  came  to  my  eyes. 

It  seemed  just  like  my  mother's  voice 

Was  speaking  from  the  skies. 

I  thought  how  often  she  had  gone 

With  little  Sis  and  me 

To  church  when  I  was  but  a  lad, 

'Way  back  in  Tennessee. 

It  never  once  occurred  to  me 

About  not  being  dressed 

In  Sunday  rig;  but  carelessly 

I  went  in  with  the  rest. 

You  should  have  seen  the  smiles  and  shrugs 

As  I  went  walking  in, 

As  though  they  thought  my  leggins 

Worse  than  any  kind  of  sin; 

Although  the  honest  parson, 

In  his  vestry  garb  arrayed, 

Was  dressed  the  same  as  I  was  — 

In  the  trappings  of  his  trade. 

The  good  man  prayed  for  all  the  world 
And  all  its  motley  crew, 


THE  COWBOY  AT  CHURCH  33 

For  pagan,  Hindoo,  sinners,  Turk, 

And  unbelieving  Jews,  — 

Though  the  congregation  doubtless  thought 

That  the  cowboy  as  a  race 

Were  a  kind  of  moral  outlaw 

With  no  good  claim  to  grace. 

Is  it  very  strange  that  cowboys  are 

A  rough  and  reckless  crew, 

When  their  garb  forbids  their  doing  right 

As  Christian  people  do? 

That  they  frequent  scenes  of  revelry 

Where  death  is  bought  and  sold, 

Where  at  least  they  get  a  welcome, 

Though  it's  prompted  by  their  gold? 

Stranger,  did  it  ever  strike  you, 
When  the  winter  days  are  gone, 
And  the  mortal  grass  is  springing  up 
To  meet  the  judgment  sun, 
And  we  'tend  mighty  round-ups 
Where,  according  to  the  Word, 
The  angel  cowboy  of  the  Lord 
Will  cut  the  human  herd  — 

That  a  heap  of  stock,  that's  lowing  now 
Around  the  Master's  pen 
And  feeding  at  his  fodder  stack, 
Will  have  the  brand  picked  then? 
A  brand  that  when  the  hair  was  long 
Looked  like  the  letter  C, 
Will  prove  to  be  the  devil's 
And  the  brand  the  letter  D ; 


34  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

While  many  a  long-horned  puncher  — 
I  mean  just  so  to  speak  — 
That  has  n't  had  the  advantage 
Of  the  range  and  gospel  creek 
Will  get  to  crop  the  grasses 
In  the  pasture  of  the  Lord 
If  the  letter  C  showed  up 
Beneath  the  devil's  checker-board? 

THE  COWBOY  AT  WORK 

Heard  this  song  sung  at  a  cow-camp  in  Rocky  Arroyo, 
Eddy  County,  New  Mexico. 

You  may  call  the  cowboy  horned  and  think  him 

hard  to  tame, 

You  may  heap  vile  epithets  upon  his  head ; 
But  to  know  him  is  to  like  him,  notwithstanding  his 

hard  name, 
For  he  will  divide  with  you  his  beef  and  bread. 

If  you  see  him  on  his  pony  as  he  scampers  o'er  the 

plain, 

You  would  think  him  wild  and  woolly  to  be  sure; 
But  his  heart  is  warm  and  tender  when  he  sees  a 

friend  in  need, 
Though  his  education  is  but  to  endure. 

When  the  storm  breaks  in  its  fury  and  lightning's 

vivid  flash 

Makes  you  thank  the  Lord  for  shelter  and  for  bed, 
Then  it  is  he  mounts  his  pony  and  away  you  see  him 

dash, 
No  protection  but  the  hat  upon  his  head. 


THE  COWBOYS'  CHRISTMAS  BALL       35 

Such  is  life  upon  a  cow-ranch  and  the  half  was 

never  told; 

But  you  never  find  a  kinder-hearted  set 
Than  the  cattleman  at  home,  be  he  either  young  or 

old; 
He's  a  "daisy  from  away  back,"  don't  forget. 

When  you  fail  to  find  a  pony  or  a  cow  that's  gone 
astray, 

Be  that  cow  or  pony  wild  or  be  it  tame, 

The  cowboy,  like  the  drummer,  —  and  the  bed- 
bug, too,  they  say,  — 

Bring  him  to  you,  for  he  gets  there  just  the  same. 


THE  COWBOYS'  CHRISTMAS  BALL 
By  Larry  Chittenden,  of  Texas 

I  received  this  song  from  Miss  Jessie  Forbes,  at  Eddy, 
New  Mexico,  1898.  I  understand  it  was  one  of  a  collection 
of  Chittenden's  entitled  Ranch  Verse. 

'Way  out  in  Western  Texas,  where  the  Clear  Fork's 

waters  flow, 
Where  the  cattle  are  a-browsin'  and  the  Spanish 

ponies  grow; 
Where  the  Northers  come  a-whistlin'  from  beyond 

the  Neutral  Strip; 
And  the  prairie  dogs  are  sneezin',  as  though  they 

had  the  grip; 
Where  the    coyotes   come  a-howlin'    round    the 

ranches  after  dark, 
And  the  mockin'  birds  are  singin'  to  the  lovely 

medder  lark; 


36  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Where  the  'possum  and  the  badger  and  the  rattle- 
snakes abound, 

And  the  monstrous  stars  are  winkin'  o'er  a  wilder- 
ness profound; 

Where  lonesome,  tawny  prairies  melt  into  airy 
streams, 

While  the  Double  Mountains  slumber  in  heavenly 
kinds  of  dreams; 

Where  the  antelope  is  grazin'  and  the  lonely  plovers 
call, 

It  was  there  I  attended  the  Cowboys'  Christmas 
Ball. 


The  town  was  Anson  City,  old  Jones'  county  seat, 
Where  they  raised  Polled  Angus  cattle  and  waving 

whiskered  wheat; 
Where  the  air  is  soft  and  bammy  and  dry  and  full 

of  health, 
Where  the  prairies  is  explodin'  with  agricultural 

wealth; 
Where  they  print  the  Texas  Western,  that  Hall 

McCann  supplies 
With  news  and  yarns  and  stories,  of  most  amazin* 

size; 
Where  Frank  Smith  "pulls  the  badger"  on  knowin' 

tenderfeet, 
And  Democracy's  triumphant  and  mighty  hard  to 

beat; 
Where  lives  that  good  old  hunter,  John  Milsap, 

from  Lamar, 
Who  used  to  be  the  sheriff  "back  east  in  Paris, 

sah." 


THE  COWBOYS'  CHRISTMAS  BALL     37 

'T  was  there,  I  say,  at  Anson  with  the  lovely  Widder 
Wall, 

That  I  went  to  that  reception,  the  Cowboys'  Christ- 
mas Ball. 


The  boys  had  left  the  ranches  and  come  to  town  in 
piles; 

The  ladies,  kinder  scattering  had  gathered  in  for 
miles. 

And  yet  the  place  was  crowded,  as  I  remember 
well, 

'T  was  gave  on  this  occasion  at  the  Morning  Star 
Hotel. 

The  music  was  a  fiddle  and  a  lively  tambourine, 

And  viol  came  imported,  by  the  stage  from  Abilene. 

The  room  was  togged  out  gorgeous  —  with  mistle- 
toe and  shawls, 

And  the  candles  flickered  festious,  around  the  airy 
walls. 

The  wimmen  folks  looked  lovely  —  the  boys  looked 
kinder  treed, 

Till  the  leader  commenced  yellin',  "Whoa,  fellers, 
let's  stampede," 

And  the  music  started  sighin'  and  a-wailin'  through 
the  hall 

As  a  kind  of  introduction  to  the  Cowboys'  Christ- 
mas Ball. 


The  leader  was  a  feller  that  came  from  Thompson's 

ranch, 
They  called  him  Windy  Billy  from  Little  Deadman's 

Branch. 


418992 


38  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

His  rig  was  kinder  keerless,  big  spurs  and  high- 
heeled  boots; 

He  had  the  reputation  that  comes  when  fellers 
shoots. 

His  voice  was  like  a  bugle  upon  the  mountain 
height; 

His  feet  were  animated  and  a  mighty  movin'  sight, 

When  he  commenced  to  holler,  "Now,  fellers 
stake  your  pen. 

Lock  horns  ter  all  them  heifers  and  rustle  them  like 
men; 

Saloot  yer  lovely  critters;  now  swing  and  let  'em  go; 

Climb  the  grapevine  round  'em;  now  all  hands  do- 
ce-do. 

You  maverick,  jine  the  round-up,  jess  skip  the 
waterfall," 

Huh,  hit  was  gettin'  active,  the  Cowboys'  Christ- 
mas Ball. 

The  boys  was  toPable  skittish,  the  ladies  powerful 
neat; 

That  old  brass  viol's  music  just  got  there  with  both 
feet; 

That  wailin',  frisky  fiddle,  I  never  shall  forget; 

And  Windy  kept  a-singin'  —  I  think  I  hear  him 
yet  — 

"  Oh,  yes,  chase  yer  squirrels  an  cut  'em  to  our  side; 

Spur  Treadwell  to  the  center,  with  Cross  P  Char- 
ley's bride; 

Doc  Hollis  down  the  center,  and  twine  the  ladies' 
chain; 

Van  Andrews,  pen  the  fillies  in  big  T  Diamond's 
train. 


THE  COWBOYS'  CHRISTMAS  BALL      39 

All  pull  your  freight  together,  now  swallow  fork  and 
change; 

Big  Boston,  lead  the  trail  herd  through  little  Pitch- 
fork's range. 

Purr  round  yer  gentle  pussies,  now  rope  and  bal- 
ance all." 

Huh,  hit  were  gettin'  active  — the  Cowboys'  Christ- 
mas Ball. 

The  dust  riz  fast  and  furious;  we  all  jes'  galloped 

round, 
Till  the  scenery  got  so  giddy  that  T  Bar  Dick  was 

downed. 
We  buckled  to  our  pardners  and  told 'em  to  hold 

on, 
Then  shook  our  hoofs  like  lightnin'  until  the  early 

dawn. 
Don't  tell  me  'bout  cotillions,  or  germans  —  no, 

sir-ee! 
That  whirl  at  Anson  City  jes'  takes  the  cake  with 

me. 
I'm  sick  of  lazy  shufflin's,  of  them  I've  had  my 

fill; 
Give  me  a  frontier  break-down  backed  up  by  Windy 

Bill. 
McAllister  ain't  nowhere,  when  Windy  leads  the 

show; 
I've  seen  'em  both  in  harness,  and  so  I  ought  ter 

know. 
Oh,  Bill,  I  shan't  forget  yer,  and  I  oftentimes 

recall 

That  lively  gaited  sworray  —  the  Cowboys'  Christ- 
mas Ball. 


40  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


THE  COWBOY'S  DREAM 

Given  me  by  Wait  Roberts,  Double  Diamond  Ranch, 
White  Mountains,  1898.  Authorship  ascribed  to  father 
of  Captain  Roberts,  of  the  Texas  Rangers. 

Last  night,  as  I  lay  on  the  prairie, 
And  looked  at  the  stars  in  the  sky, 
I  wondered  if  ever  a  cowboy 
Would  drift  to  that  sweet  by  and  by. 

I  hear  there 's  to  be  a  grand  round-up 
Where  cowboys  with  others  must  stand, 
To  be  cut  out  by  the  riders  of  judgment 
Who  are  posted  and  know  all  the  brands. 

The  trail  to  that  great  mystic  region 

Is  narrow  and  dim,  so  they  say; 

While  the  one  that  leads  down  to  perdition 

Is  posted  and  blazed  all  the  way. 

Whose  fault  is  it,  then,  that  so  many 
Go  astray,  on  this  wild  range  fail, 
Who  might  have  been  rich  and  had  plenty 
Had  they  known  of  the  dim,  narrow  trail? 

I  wonder  if  at  the  last  day  some  cowboy 
Unbranded  and  unclaimed  should  stand, 
Would  he  be  mavericked  by  those  riders  of  judgment 
Who  are  posted  and  know  all  the  brands? 

I  wonder  if  ever  a  cowboy 
Stood  ready  for  that  Judgment  Day, 
And  could  say  to  the  Boss  of  the  Riders, 
"I'm  ready,  come,  drive  me  away"? 


THE  COWBOY'S  LAMENT  41 

For  they,  like  the  cows  that  are  locoed, 

Stampede  at  the  sight  of  a  hand, 

Are  dragged  with  a  rope  to  the  round-up,^ 

Or  get  marked  with  some  crooked  man's  brand. 

And  I'm  scared  that  I'll  be  a  stray  yearling, 
A  maverick,  unbranded  on  high, 
And  get  cut  in  the  bunch  with  the  "rustics" 
When  the  Boss  of  the  Riders  goes  by. 

For  they  tell  of  another  big  owner 
Who  's  ne'er  overstocked,  so  they  say, 
But  who  always  makes  room  for  the  sinner 
Who  drifts  from  the  straight,  narrow  way. 

They  say  he  will  never  forget  you, 
That  he  knows  every  action  and  look; 
So  for  safety  you'd  better  get  branded, 
Have  your  name  in  the  great  Tally  Book. 

My  wish  for  all  cowboys  is  this : 
That  we  may  meet  at  that  grand  final  sale; 
Be  cut  out  by  the  riders  of  judgment 
And  shoved  up  the  dim,  narrow  trail. 

\ 
THE  COWBOY'S  LAMENT 

Authojship  credited  to  Troy  Hale,  Battle  Creek,  Ne- 
braska. I  first  heard  it  sung  in  a  bar-room  at  Wisner, 
Nebraska,  about  1886. 

As  I  walked  out  in  the  streets  of  Laredo, 

As  I  walked  out  in  Laredo  one  day, 

I  spied  a  poor  cowboy  wrapped  up  in  white  linen, 

Wrapped  up  in  white  linen  as  cold  as  the  clay. 


42  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

"  Oh,  beat  the  drum  slowly  and  play  the  fife  lowly, 
Play  the  Dead  March  as  you  bear  me  along; 
Take  me  to  the  graveyard,  and  lay  the  sod  over  me, 
For  I'm  a  young  cowboy,  and  I  know  I've  done 
wrong. 

"I  see  by  your  outfit  that  you  are  a  cowboy,"  — 
These  words  he  did  say  as  I  boldly  stepped  by  — 
"Come,  sit  beside  me  and  hear  my  sad  story; 
I  was  shot  in  the  breast  and  I  know  I  must  die. 

"Let  sixteen  gamblers  come  handle  my  coffin, 
Let  sixteen  cowboys  come  sing  me  a  song, 
Take  me  to  the  graveyard  and  lay  the  sod  over  me, 
For  I  'm  a  poor  cowboy,  and  I  know  I  've  done  wrong. 

"  My  friends  and  relations  they  live  in  the  Nation, 
They  know  not  where  their  boy  has  gone. 
He  first  came  to  Texas  and  hired  to  a  ranchman, 
Oh,  I'm  a  young  cowboy,  and  I  know  I've  done 
wrong. 

"  Go  write  a  letter  to  my  gray-haired  mother, 
And  carry  the  same  to  my  sister  so  dear; 
But  not  a  word  shall  you  mention 
When  a  crowd  gathers  round  you  my  story  to 
hear. 

"There  is  another  more  dear  than  a  sister, 
She'll  bitterly  weep  when  she  hears  I  am  gone. 
There  is  another  who  will  win  her  affections, 
For  I'm  a  young  cowboy,  and  they  say  I've  done 
wrong. 


THE  COWBOY'S  LAMENT  43 

"  Go  gather  around  you  a  crowd  of  young  cowboys, 
And  tell  them  the  story  of  this  my  sad  fate; 
Tell  one  and  the  other  before  they  go  further 
To  stop  their  wild  roving  before  't  is  too  late. 

"  Oh,  muffle  your  drums,  then  play  your  fifes  mer- 
rily; 

Play  the  Dead  March  as  you  bear  me  along. 
And  fire  your  guns  right  over  my  coffin; 
There  goes  an  unfortunate  boy  to  his  home. 

"  It  was  once  in  the  saddle  I  used  to  go  dashing, 
It  was  once  in  the  saddle  I  used  to  be  gay; 
First  to  the  dram-house,  then  to  the  card-house : 

Got  shot  in  the  breast,  I  am  dying  to-day. 

i 

"Get  six  jolly  cowboys  to  carry  my  coffin; 
Get  six  pretty  maidens  to  bear  up  my  pall; 
Put  bunches  of  roses  all  over  my  coffin, 
Put  roses  to  deaden  the  clods  as  they  fall. 

"Then  swing  your  rope  slowly  and  rattle  your  spurs 

lowly, 

And  give  a  wild  whoop  as  you  bear  me  along; 
And  in  the  grave  throw  me,  and  roll  the  sod  over 

me, 
For  I'm  a  young  cowboy,  and  I  know  I've  done 

wrong. 

"  Go  bring  me  a  cup,  a  cup  of  cold  water, 
To  cool  my  parched  lips,"  the  cowboy  said;  " 
Before  I  turned,  the  spirit  had  left  him 
And  gone  to  its  Giver  —  the  cowboy  was  dead. 


44  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

We  beat  the  drum  slowly  and  played  the  fife  lowly, 

And  bitterly  wept  as  we  bore  him  along; 

For  we  all  loved  our  comrade,  so  brave,  young,  and 

handsome; 
We  all  loved  our  comrade,  although  he'd  done 

wrong. 

THE  COWBOY'S  LIFE 

Heard  this  sung  at  a  little  round-up  at  Seven  Lakes, 
New  Mexico,  by  a  puncher  named  Spence. 

The  bawl  of  a  steer 

To  a  cowboy's  ear 

Is  music  of  sweetest  strain; 

And  the  yelping  notes 

Of  the  gray  coyotes 

To  him  are  a  glad  refrain. 

And  his  jolly  songs 

Speed  him  along 

As  he  thinks  of  the  little  gal 

With  golden  hair 

Who  is  waiting  there 

At  the  bars  of  the  home  corral. 

For  a  kingly  crown 

In  the  noisy  town 

His  saddle  he  would  n't  change; 

No  life  so  free 

As  the  life  we  see 

'Way  out  on  the  Yaso  range. 

His  eyes  are  bright 
And  his  heart  as  light 


THE  COWBOY'S  LIFE 


As  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette; 

There's  never  a  care 

For  his  soul  to  bear, 

No  trouble  to  make  him  fret. 

The  rapid  beat 

Of  his  bronco's  feet, 

On  the  sod  as  he  speeds  along, 

Keeps  living  time 

To  the  ringing  rhyme 

Of  his  rollicking  cowboy's  song. 

Hike  it,  cowboys, 

For  the  range  away 

On  the  back  of  a  bronc  of  steel, 

With  a  careless  flirt 

Of  the  raw-hide  quirt 

And  the  dig  of  a  roweled  heel. 

The  winds  may  blow 

And  the  thunder  growl 

Or  the  breeze  may  safely  moan; 

A  cowboy's  life 

Is  a  royal  life, 

His  saddle  his  kingly  throne. 

Saddle  up,  boys, 

For  the  work  is  play 

When  love's  in  the  cowboy's  eyes, 

When  his  heart  is  light 

As  the  clouds  of  white 

That  swim  in  the  summer  skies. 


46  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


THE  COWBOY'S  MEDITATION 

I  regret  that  I  do  not  know  the  author's  name.  Have 
tried  to  locate  him,  but  so  far  have  failed.  Heard  this 
sung  in  Bluff  City,  Utah,  by  an  old  puncher  named 
Carter. 

At  midnight,  when  the  cattle  are  sleeping, 

On  my  saddle  I  pillow  my  head, 

And  up  at  the  heavens  lie  peeping 

From  out  of  my  cold  grassy  bed;  — 

Often  and  often  I  wondered, 

At  night  when  lying  alone, 

If  every  bright  star  up  yond.er 

Is  a  big  peopled  world  like  our  own. 

Are  they  worlds  with  their  ranges  and  ranches? 

Do  they  ring  with  rough-rider  refrains? 

Do  the  cowboys  scrap  there  with  Comanches 

And  other  Red  Men  of  the  plains? 

Are  the  hills  covered  over  with  cattle 

In  those  mystic  worlds  far,  far  away? 

Do  the  ranch-houses  ring  with  the  prattle 

Of  sweet  little  children  at  play? 

At  night,  in  the  bright  stars  up  yonder, 
Do  the  cowboys  lie  down  to  their  rest? 
Do  they  gaze  at  this  old  world  and  wonder 
If  rough  riders  dash  over  its  breast? 
Do  they  list  to  the  wolves  in  the  canyons? 
Do  they  watch  the  night  owl  in  its  flight, 
With  their  horses  their  only  companions 
While  guarding  the  herd  through  the  night? 

Sometimes,  when  a  bright  star  is  twinkling 
Like  a  diamond  set  in  the  sky, 


A  COWBOY'S  PRAYER  47 

I  find  myself  lying  and  thinking, 

It  may  be  God's  heaven  is  nigh. 

I  wonder  if  there  I  shall  meet  her, 

My  mother  whom  God  took  away; 

If  in  the  star-heavens  I'll  greet  her 

At  the  round-up  that's  on  the  Last  Day. 

In  the  east  the  great  daylight  is  breaking, 
And  into  my  saddle  I  spring; 
The  cattle  from  sleep  are  awaking, 
The  heaven- thoughts  from  me  take  wing; 
The  eyes  of  my  bronco  are  flashing, 
Impatient  he  pulls  at  the  reins, 
And  off  round  the  herd  I  go  dashing, 
A  reckless  cowboy  of  the  plains. 

A  COWBOY'S  PRAYER 

Given  me  by  Phil  LeNoir,  Secretary  of  the  Las  Vegas 
Round-Up.  Afterwards  found  it  in  Charles  Badger 
Clark,  Jr.'s,  book,  "Sun  and  Saddle  Leather." 

0  Lord,  I  ain't  never  lived  where  churches  grow. 

1  like  creation  better  as  it  stood 
That  day  You  finished  it  so  long  ago 

And  looked  upon  Your  work  and  called  it  good 
I  know  that  others  find  You  in  the  light 
That's  sifted  down  through  tinted  window-panes, 
And  yet  I  seem  to  feel  You  near  to-night 
In  this  dim,  quiet  starlight  on  the  plains. 

I  thank  You,  Lord,  that  I  am  placed  so  well, 
That  You  have  made  my  freedom  so  complete; 
That  I'm  no  slave  of  whistle,  clock,  or  bell, 
Nor  weak-eyed  prisoner  of  wall  and  street. 


48  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Just  let  me  live  my  life  as  I've  begun 
And  give  me  work  that's  open  to  the  sky; 
Make  me  a  pardner  of  the  wind  and  sun 
And  I  won't  ask  a  life  that's  soft  or  high. 

Let  me  be  easy  on  the  man  that's  down; 
Let  me  be  square  and  generous  with  all. 
I'm  careless,  sometimes,  Lord,  when  I'm  in  town, 
But  never  let  'em  say  I'm  mean  or  small  I 
Make  me  as  big  and  open  as  the  plains, 
As  honest  as  the  horse  between  my  knees, 
Clean  as  the  wind  that  blows  behind  the  rains, 
Free  as  the  hawk  that  circles  down  the  breeze. 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  if  sometimes  I  forget. 
You  know  about  the  reasons  that  are  hid. 
You  understand  the  things  that  gall  and  fret; 
Why,  You  know  me  better  than  my  mother  did ! 
Just  keep  an  eye  on  all  that's  done  and  said, 
Just  right  me  sometimes  when  I  turn  aside, 
And  lead  me  on  that  long  dim  trail  ahead 
That  stretches  upward  toward  the  Great  Divide. 

A  COWBOY'S  PRIZE 

Published  in  "Denver  Post."   I  first  heard  it  sung  by 
Al  Roberts  in  White  Oaks,  New  Mexico. 

Never  was  no  gal  like  Mollie 

In  creation,  I  don't  think ! 

Hotter 'n  a  hot  tamale; 

Han'some  ain't  the  word  to  fit  'er  — 

She's  a  beauty  head  to  heel  — 

Lightnin'-built  git-up-an'-gitter, 

An'  as  true  as  polished  steel. 


COWBOYS  VICTIMIZED  49 

Case  o'  love  at  first  sight,  reckon  — 
On  my  part,  you  understand  — 
An'  I  swore  she'd  soon  be  packin' 
This  same  ol'  cow-puncher's  brand. 
Went  into  the  game  an'  won  'er, 
From  all  rivals  yanked  the  prize ; 
Cut  'er  from  the  bunch  an'  run  'er 
OS  before  their  jealous  eyes. 

Now  she 's  mine.  There  ain't  a  prouder 
Rider  on  the  ranges,  see? 
Mortal  could  n't  yawp  no  louder 
Crackin'  up  her  worth  than  me. 
From  the  crupper  to  the  snaffle 
She's  a  thorrerbred,  that  mare, 
That  I  won  at  Johnson's  raffle 
At  the  T  ranch  on  the  Bear. 


COWBOYS  VICTIMIZED 
By  James  Barton  Adams 

I  first  heard  this  song  in  El  Paso,  Texas,  at  a  Stock  Asso- 
ciation meeting,  sung  between  supper  and  breakfast  by 
a  man  with  a  good  voice,  and  long  afterwards  learned  the 
author's  name. 

We  had  all  made  the  guess  by  the  cut  of  his  dress 

an'  the  tenderfoot  style  that  he  slung, 
An'  the  way  that  he  spun  toney  language  that  run 

slick  as  grease  from  the  p'int  of  his  tongue, 
That  he  was  a  red-hotter  from  over  the  water,  a  juke 

or  a  markis,  or  wuss, 
Than  that  in  his  rank,  an'  we  thought  we  could  bank 

on  havin'  some  fun  with  the  cuss. 


50  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

He  talked  with  a  drawl  till  his  words  seemed  to  fall 

reluctant  outen  his  mouth, 
An'  the  babyish  stare  in  his  eyes  you  would  swear 

showed  a  brain  that  was  stunted  by  drouth; 
An'  the  boys  o'  the  range  all  regarded  the  strange 

sort  o'  cuss  that  had  come  there  to  board 
For  his  health  as  a  snob  an'  we  put  up  a  job  that  'd 

lower  the  pride  o'  my  lord. 

He  remarked  that  he  could  ride  anything  that  wore 

hide;  he  had  rid  with  the  'ounds,  don't  ye 

know; 
An'  we  told  him  we  thought  we'd  be  able  to  trot  out 

a  hoss  that  wa'n't  fashioned  for  show  — 
One  o'  kittenish  views  that'd  serve  to  amuse  of  his 

highness  if  he  was  inclined 
Fur  to  try  it  a  whirl,  an'  he  smiled  like  a  girl,  an' 

would  ride  it  if  we  did  n't  mind. 
An'  he  went  farther  with  an  offer  to  bet  all  the 

boodle  that  we  could  perduce, 
That  he'd  ride  anything  we'd  a  notion  to  bring  till 

he  toned  it  down  tame  as  a  goose. 
An'  in  manner  quite  rash  our  available  cash  was 

flashed  fur  to  back  up  our  views 
That  we'd  find  him  a  chunk  of  quick-action  bronc 

that'd  buck  him  plumb  outen  his  shoes! 

We'd  a  mare  in  the  herd  that  was  reckoned  a  bird, 

jest  a  bundle  o'  git-up-an'-git; 
Half  devil,  half  hoss,  which  the  same  is  a  cross 

that's  productive  o'  meanness  an'  grit; 
She  had  downed  every  rider  that  dared  get  astride 

her  and  crippled  a  dozen  or  so 


COWBOYS  VICTIMIZED  51 

Of  the  fellows  who'd  said  that  the  boss  wasn't 

bred  that  could  give  'em  the  wust  of  a  go ; 
So  we  saddled  ol'  Satan,  the  tenderfoot  waitin' 

with  a  grin  on  his  innercent  face ; 
An'  we  got  him  astraddle  an'  sot  in  the  saddle  an' 

seed  everything  was  in  place, 
An'jve  bid  him  good-bye  with  a  wink  o*  the  eye  at 

each  other  an'  anxiously  stood 
Holdin'  onto  the  head  o'  the  bronc  till  he  said  we 

might  let  'er  go  if  we  would. 

If  the  heavens  had  fell  all  around  that  corral  an' 

drowned  us  in  clouds  from  the  skies 
I  kin  tell  you,  by  gad,  that  we  would  n't  'a'  had  any 

bigger  a  bunch  o'  surprise; 
Fur  he  sot  in  his  seat  in  the  saddle  as  neat  as  if 

lollin'  around  in  a  chair, 
An'  that  bronco  a-thumpin'  the  earth  an'  a-jumpin' 

in  spasms  right  up  in  the  air; 
Lit  a  cigarette  right  in  the  heat  o'  the  fight  an' 

grinned  at  the  animal's  jumps, 
Us  guys  standin'  there  with  a  paralyzed  stare  like 

a  bunch  o'  half -idiot  chumps; 
An'  I'm  tellin'  you,  boss,  that  he  stayed  with  that 

hoss  until  he  got  it  as  meek  as  a  calf, 
An'  rid  it  around  on  the  hoof-battered  ground  an' 

givin'  us  fellers  the  laugh ! 

Every  devilish  bloke  in  the  gang  had  gone  broke 

a-backin'  his  honest  belief 
That  the  bronco  we'd  picked  that  had  never  been 

licked  'd  sure  bring  the  stranger  to  grief; 
An'  we  bellered  an'  swore  till  our  lungs  was  plum 


52  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

sore  when  we  learned  that  the  schemin' 
young  hound 

Was   Bronco   Bill    Snyder,   the   champion   rider, 
a-huntin'  a  snap  —  which  he  found. 

THE  COWMAN'S  PRAYER 

Don't  know  the  author's  name.  Heard  it  sung  in  a  cow- 
camp  near  Fort  Sumner,  on  the  Pecos  River,  New 
Mexico. 

Now,  O  Lord,  please  lend  me  thine  ear, 
The  prayer  of  a  cattleman  to  hear; 
No  doubt  the  prayers  may  seem  strange, 
But  I  want  you  to  bless  our  cattle  range. 

Bless  the  round-ups  year  by  year, 
And  don't  forget  the  growing  steer; 
Water  the  lands  with  brooks  and  rills 
For  my  cattle  that  roam  on  a  thousand  hills. 

Prairie  fires,  won't  you  please  stop? 
Let  thunder  roll,  water  drop. 
It  frightens  me  to  see  the  smoke; 
Unless  it's  stopped,  I'll  go  dead  broke. 

As  you,  O  Lord,  my  herd  behold, 

It  represents  a  sack  of  gold; 

I  think  at  least  five  cents  a  pound 

Will  be  the  price  of  beef  the  year  round. 

One  thing  more  and  then  I  'm  through,  — • 
Instead  of  one  calf,  give  my  cows  two. 
I  may  pray  different  from  other  men,    i 
But  I've  had  my  say,  and  now,  Amen. 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  TO  HOLBROOK  53 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  TO  HOLBROOK 

Mailed  me  from  Douglas,  Arizona,  by  an  old  friend 
named  Cotton. 

Come,  all  you  jolly  cowboys  that  follow  the  bronco 

steer, 
I'll  sing  to  you  a  verse  or  two  your  spirits  for  to 

cheer; 

It's  all  about  a  trip  that  I  did  undergo 
On  that  crooked  trail  to  Holbrook,  in  Arizona,  oh. 

It  was  on  the  seventeenth  of  February  our  herd 

it  started  out, 
It  would  have  made  your  hearts  jump  to  hear  them 

bawl  and  shout, 

As  wild  as  any  buffalo  that  ever  swam  the  Platte, 
Those  cattle  we  were  driving  and  every  one  was 

fat. 

We  crossed  the  Mescal  Mountains  on  the  way  to 

Hidalgo, 
And  when  we  got  to  Gilson  Flats,  Lord,  how  the 

wind  did  blow! 

But  our  spirits  never  failed  us  as  onward  we  did  go,  — 
On  that  crooked  trail  to  Holbrook,  in  Arizona,  oh. 

That  night  we  had  a  stampede ;  Lord,  how  the  cattle 

run! 

We  made  it  to  our  horses;  I  tell  you,  we  had  fun; 
Over  the  prickly  pear  and  catclaw  brush  we  quickly 

made  our  way; 
We  thought  of  our  long  journey  and  the  girls  we  'd 

left  one  day. 


54  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

It's  long  by  Sombserva  we  slowly  punched  along, 
While  each  and  every  puncher  would  sing'a  hearty 

song 

To  cheer  up  his  comrade  as  onward  we  did  go,  — 
On  that  crooked  trail  to  Holbrook,  in  Arizona,  oh. 

We  crossed  the  Mogollon  Mountains  where  the  tall 

pines  grow, 

Grass  in  abundance  and  rippling  streams  do  flow; 
Our  packs  were  always  turning,  of  course  our  gait 

was  slow,  — 
On  that  crooked  trail  of  Holbrook,  in  Arizona,  oh. 

At  last  we  got  to  Holbrook  —  a  little  gale  did  blow; 
It  blew  up  sand  and  pebble  stones,  and  it  did  n't 

blow  them  slow. 
We  had  to  drink  the  water  from  that  muddy  little 

stream, 
And  swallowed  a  peck  of  dirt  when  we  tried  to  eat 

a  bean. 

But  the  cattle  now  are  shipped  and  homeward  we 

are  bound 
With  a  lot  of  as  tired  horses  as  ever  could  be 

found, 

Across  the  reservation  no  danger  did  we  fear, 
But  thought  of  wives  and  sweethearts  and  the  ones 

we  love  so  dear. 


CROSSING  THE  DIVIDE  55 

CROSSING  THE  DIVIDE 
By  J.  W.  Foley 

One  of  the  best  of  the  lot.  Heard  this  at  a  round-up  in  the 
Mogollon  Mountains,  sung  by  a  puncher  named  Freckles. 

Parson,  I'm  a  maverick,  just  runnin'  loose  an' 

grazin', 
Eatin'  where 's  th'  greenest  grass  an'  drinkin'  where 

I  choose; 

Had  to  rustle  in  my  youth  an'  never  had  no  raisin' ; 
Was  n't  never  halter  broke  an'  I  ain't  much  to  lose; 
Used  to  sleepin'  in  a  bag  an*  livin'  in  a  slicker; 
Church  folks  never  branded  me  —  I  don't  know  as 

they  tried; 
Wish  you'd  say  a  prayer  for  me  an'  try  to  make  a 

dicker 
For  the  best  they'll  give  me  when  I  cross  the  Big 

Divide. 

Tell  'em  I  ain't  corralled  a  night  in  more'n  twenty; 
Tell  'em  I  'm  rawboned  an'  rough  an'  ain't  much  for 

looks; 
Tell  'em  I  don't  need  much  grief  because  I've  had 

a-plenty; 
I  don't  know  how  bad  I  am  'cause  I  ain't  kept  no 

books. 

Tell  'em I  'm  a  maverick  a-runnin'  loose  unbranded ; 
Tell  'em  I  shoot  straight  an*  quick  an'  ain't  got  much 

to  hide; 
Have  'em  come  an'  size  me  up  as  soon  as  I  get 

landed, 
For  the  best  they'll  give  me  when  I  cross  the  Great 

Divide. 


56  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Tell 'em  I  rode  straight  an'  square  an'  never  grabbed 

for  leather; 
Never  roped  a  crippled  steer  or  rode  a  sore-backed 

horse; 
Tell  'em  I've  bucked  wind  an'  rain  an'  every  sort 

of  weather, 
Had  my  tilts  with  A.  K.  Hall  an'  Captain  R.  E. 

Morse. 
Don't  hide  nothin'  from  'em,  whether  it  be  sweet 

or  bitter, 
Tell  'em  I'll  stay  on  th'  range,  but  if  I'm  shut 

outside 
111  abide  it    like    a    man  because    I    ain't   no 

quitter; 
I  ain't  going  to  change  just  when  I  cross  th'  Big 

Divide. 

Tell  'em,  when  th'  Roundup  comes  for  all  us  human 

critters, 
Just  corral  me  with  my  kind  an'  run  a  brand  on 

me; 
I  don't  want  to  be  corralled  with  hypocrites  an' 

quitters; 
Brand  me  just  for  what  I  am  —  an'  I'm  just  what 

you  see. 
I  don't  want  no  steam-het  stall  or  bran-mash  for 

my  ration; 

I  just  want  to  meet  th'  boss  an'  face  him  honest- 
eyed, 
Show  him  just  what  chips  I  got  an'  shove  'em  in  for 

cashin' ; 
That's  what  you  can  tell  'em  when  I  cross  the  Big 

Divide. 


DAN  TAYLOR  57 


DAN  TAYLOR 

Authorship  credited  to  Len  Doran,  Mineral  Wells, 
Texas.  I  first  heard  it  sung  by  Tom  Williamson,  while 
carrying  a  bunch  of  horses  from  Monument  Springs  over 
to  Midland,  Texas. 

Dan  Taylor  is  a  rollicking  cuss, 
A  frisky  son  of  a  gun; 
He  loves  to  court  the  maidens, 
And  he  savvies  how  it's  done. 

He  used  to  be  a  cowboy, 
And  they  say  he  was  n't  slow; 
He  could  ride  the  bucking  bronco 
And  swing  the  long  lasso. 

He  could  catch  a  maverick  by  the  head 
Or  heel  him  on  the  fly; 
He  could  pick  up  his  front  ones 
Whenever  he  chose  to  try. 

He  used  to  ride  'most  anything; 
Now  he  seldom  will. 
He  says  they  cut  some  caper  in  the  air 
Of  which  he's  got  his  fill. 

He  is  done  and  quit  the  business, 
Settled  down  to  quiet  life, 
And  he's  hunting  for  some  maiden 
Who  will  be  his  wife,  — 

One  who  will  wash  and  patch  his  britches 
And  feed  the  setting  hen, 
Milk  old  Blue  and  Brindy, 
And  tend  to  baby  Ben. 


58  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Then  he'll  build  a  cozy  cottage 
And  furnish  it  complete, 
He  '11  decorate  the  walls  inside 
With  pictures  new  and  sweet. 

He  will  leave  off  riding  broncos 
And  be  a  different  man; 
He  will  do  his  best  to  please  his  wife 
In  every  way  he  can. 

Then  together  in  double  harness 
They  will  trot  along  down  the  line, 
Until  death  shall  call  them  over 
To  a  bright  and  sunny  clime. 

May  your  joys  be  then  completed 
And  your  sorrows  have  an  end, 
Is  the  fondest  wish  of  the  writer,  — 
Your  true  and  faithful  friend. 

A  DEER  HUNT 

There  are  several  versions  of  this  song.  Everybody  adds 
a  new  verse.  The  author  of  this  no  one  knows,  as  the 
original  song  has  been  so  changed  by  additions  of  verses 
that  there  is  little  of  it  left. 

One  pleasant  summer  day  it  came  a  storm  of  snow; 
I  picked  my  old  gun  and  a-hunting  I  did  go. 

I  came  across  a  herd  of  deer  and  I  trailed  them 

through  the  snow; 
I  trailed  them  to  the  mountains  where  straight  up 

they  did  go. 


A  DEER  HUNT  59 

I  trailed  them  o'er  the  mountains,  I  trailed  them  to 

the  brim, 
And  trailed  them  to  the  waters  where  they  jumped 

in  to  swim. 

i  cocked  both  my  pistols  and  under  water  went,  — 
To  kill  the  fattest  of  them  deer,  that  was  my  whole 
intent. 

While  I  was  under  water  five  hundred  feet  or  more, 
I  fired  both  my  pistols — like  cannons  did  they  roar. 

I  picked  up  my  venison  and  out  of  water  came,  — 
To  kill  the  balance  of  them  deer  I  thought  it  was  my 
aim. 

So  I  bent  my  gun  in  circles  and  fired  round  a  hill, 
And  out  of  three  or  four  deer  ten  thousand  I  did  kill. 

Then  I  picked  up  my  venison  and  on  my  back  I  tied, 
And  as  the  sun  came  passing  by  I  hopped  up  there 
to  ride. 

The  sun  she  carried  me  o'er  the  globe;  so  merrily 

I  did  roam 
That  in  four  and  twenty  hours  I  landed  safe  at 

home. 

And  the  money  I  received  for  my  venison  and  skin, 
I  taken  it  all  to  the  barn  door  and  it  would  not  all  go  in. 

And  if  you  doubt  the  truth  of  this  I  tell  you  how  to 

know: 
Just  take  my  trail  and  go  my  rounds  as  I  did  long 

ago. 


60  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

And  if  you  get  there  before  I  do,  and  in  case  you  do 

not  find  me, 
I'll  just  back  trail  for  a  year  or  two,  for  the  gal  I  left 

behind  me. 


ON  THE  OL'  BAR-G 
By  Phil  LeNoir 
The  boss  he  took  a  trip  to  France, 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 
He  left  his  gal  to  run  the  ranch, 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 
She  would  n't  let  us  chew  nor  cuss, 
Had  to  keep  slicked  up  like  a  city  bus, 
So  round-up  time  was  u-nan-i-mous, 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 

Our  round-up  cook  he  soon  got  th'u, 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 
Found  his  clay  pipe  right  in  the  stew, 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 
But  when  we  let  that  feller  go 
We  married  grief  an'  we  married  woe, 
For  the  gal  opined  she'd  bake  the  dough, 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 

Wisht  you'd  seen  her  openin'  meal 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 
We  all  blinked  twict  —  seemed  plumb  unreal, 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 
We  had  figs  an'  fudge  an'  whipped-up  pru-in 
An'  angel-cake  all  dipped  in  goo-in, 
"My  Gawd,"  said  Tex,  "my  stomick  's  ruin'" 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 


THE  DREARY,  DREARY  LIFE  61 

We  quit  that  job  an'  cook-la-dee, 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 
An'  pulled  our  freight  for  the  lone  prair-ee, 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 
For  out  on  the  range  we  could  chew  an'  cuss 
An'  git  real  mean  an'  bois-ter-uss, 
Whar  apron-strings  they  could  n't  rope  us, 

Down  on  the  oV  Bar-G. 

THE  DREARY,  DREARY  LIFE 

An  old  song,  a  jumble  of  several.  Authorship  unknown. 
I  first  heard  it  at  Kingston,  New  Mexico,  sung  by  a  man 
named  Sam  Jackson. 

A  cowboy's  life  is  a  dreary,  dreary  life, 
Some  say  it's  free  from  care; 
Rounding  up  the  cattle  from  morning  till  night 
On  the  bald  prairie  so  bare. 

Just  about  four  o'clock  old  cook  will  holler  out,    '•* 
"Roll  out,  boys,  it's  almost  day." 
Throughhis  broken  slumbers  the  puncher  he  will  ask, 
Has  the  short  summer  night  passed  away? 

The  cowboy's  life  is  a  dreary,  dreary  life, 
He's  driven  through  the  heat  and  cold; 
While  the  rich  man 's  a-sleeping  on  his  velvet  couch, 
Dreaming  of  his  silver  and  gold. 

When  the  spring  work  sets  in,  then  our  troubles 

will  begin, 

The  weather  being  fierce  and  cold; 
We're  almost  froze,  with  the  water  on  our  clothes, 
And  the  cattle  we  can  scarcely  hold. 


62  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

The  cowboy's  life  is  a  dreary,  weary  one, 
He  works  all  day  to  the  setting  of  the  sun; 
And  then  his  day's  work  is  not  done, 
For  there's  his  night  guard  to  go  on. 

"Saddle  up!  Saddle  up!"  the  boss  will  holler  out, 
When  camped  down  by  the  Pecos  Stream, 
Where  the  wolves  and  owls  with  their  terrifying  howls 
Will  disturb  us  in  our  midnight  dream. 

You  are  speaking  of  your  farms,  you  are  speaking  of 

your  charms, 

You  are  speaking  of  your  silver  and  gold ; 
But  a  cowboy's  life  is  a  dreary,  dreary  life, 
He 's  driven  through  the  heat  and  cold. 

Once  I  loved  to  roam,  but  now  I  stay  at  home : 

All  you  punchers  take  my  advice; 

Sell  your  bridle  and  your  saddle,  quit  your  roaming 

and  your  travels, 
And  tie  on  to  a  cross-eyed  wife. 

THE  DYING  COWBOY 

Authorship  credited  to  H.  demons,  Deadwood,  Dakota, 
1872.  I  first  heard  it  from  Kearn  Carico,  at  Norfolk, 
Nebraska,  in  1886. 

"Oh,  bury  me  not  on  the  lone  prairie"; 
Those  words  came  slow  and  mournfully 
From  the  pallid  lips  of  a  youth  that  lay 
On  his  dying  couch  at  the  close  of  day. 

He  had  wasted  and  pined  till  o'er  his  brow 
Death's  shadows  fast  were  drawing  now ; 
He  had  thought  of  home  and  the  loved  ones  nigh, 
As  the  cowboys  gathered  to  see  him  die. 


THE  END  OF  THE  YAQUI  TRAIL       63 

How  oft  have  I  listened  to  those  well-known  words, 
The  wild  wind  and  the  sound  of  birds; 
He  had  thought  of  home  and  the  cottonwood  boughs, 
Of  the  scenes  that  he  loved  in  his  childhood  hours. 

"  I  have  always  wished  to  be  laid,  when  I  died, 
In  the  old  churchyard  on  the  green  hillside, 
By  the  grave  of  my  father,  oh,  let  my  grave  be; 
Oh,  bury  me  not  on  the  lone  prairie. 

"  I  wish  to  be  laid  where  a  mother's  care 
And  a  sister's  tear  can  mingle  there; 
Where  friends  can  come  and  weep  o'er  me; 
Oh,  bury  me  not  on  the  lone  prairie. 

"Oh,  bury  me  not  — "  and  his  voice  failed  there; 
They  paid  no  heed  to  his  dying  prayer; 
In  a  narrow  grave  just  six  by  three, 
They  laid  him  there  on  the  lone  prairie. 

Where  the  dewdrops  fall  and  the  butterfly  rests, 
The  wild  rose  blooms  on  the  prairie's  crest, 
Where  the  coyotes  howl  and  the  wind  sports  free, 
They  laid  him  there  on  the  lone  prairie. 

THE  END  OF  THE  YAQUI  TRAIL 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Written  while  near  Altar,  in  State  of  Sonora,  old  Mexico, 
south  of  El  Sarsabi,  receiving  a  herd  of  steers  for  Allen 
&  Robinson,  of  the  Lamy  Grant,  near  Santa  Fe,  1914. 

Living  long  lives  in  Sonora,  nested  'mongst  moun- 
tains high, 

In  close  commune  with  the  eagles  that  soar  the 
Southern  sky; 


64  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Living  by  hunting  and  fishing,  raising  their  Indian 

corn, 
High  in  the  Sierra  Madres,  't  was  there  the  Yaquis 

were  born. 

Loud  in  their  childish  prattle,  playing  with  sticks 

and  stones; 
Each  one  a  future  warrior  born  to  defend  their 

homes; 
Sons  of  Spartan  mothers,  reared  in  those  mountains 

high, 
Satisfied  with  a  peaceful  life  just  as  you  or  I. 

Crooning  to  their  papooses  just  like  your  mam- 
mi  e  or  mine, 

Squaws  of  a  hardy  nation,  stoics  and  last  of  their 
line; 

With  every  man's  hand  against  them,  driven  from 
crag  to  fen, 

God  in  His  mercy  defend  them,  for  still  they  are 
mothers  of  men. 

From  the  days  of  Don  Velasquez,  Alvarado,  and 
Hernan  Cortez, 

Victoria  Pednaza,  Santana,  and  Porfirio  Diaz, 

They've  driven  them  into  slavery  through  Jalisco 
to  Michoacan, 

Through  Guerrero  Oaxaca  Campeche  to  the  jute- 
fields  of  Yucatan. 

Save  them  till  Montezuma,  God  of  the  Indian  race, 
Who,  according  to  ancient  tradition,  shall  some 
day  come  out  of  the  East, 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  BEEF  STEER       65 

And  call  all  the  braves  and  warriors  above  and  be- 
neath the  sod 

To  rally  around  his  standard  and  pay  homage  to 
their  God. 

THE  FATE  OF  THE  BEEF  STEER 
By  J.  W.  Foley 

Heard  this  sung  at  a  cow-camp  at  Solidad  Ranch,  New 
Mexico. 

Hush-a-by,  Long  Horn,  your  pards  are  all  sleepin'; 
Stop  your  dura  millin'  an'  tossin'  your  head, 
Wavin'  your  horns  so  unrestful,  an'  sweepin' 
All  of  the  beef  herd  with  eyes  big  an'  red.  '• 
Mebbe  you  know  when  you're  pawin'  the  dust  up, 
Bellerin'  ugly  an'  switchin'  your  tail; 
Mebbe  you  know  when  you  are  nearin'  the  bust-up, 
Nearin'  the  quittin*  place  —  end  of  the  trail. 

Say,  it's  a  queer  trail  that  you've  got  to  f oiler, 
Scattered  all  over  the  face  of  the  land, 
All  of  you  made  into  goods  but  the  holler,  , 
Part  of  you  bottled  an'  part  of  you  canned. 
Wait  till  they're  through  with  you  till  you  knock 

under ; 

You've  got  so  ticklish  a  journey  to  go. 
All  of  the  round-ups  between  here  an'  thunder 
Could  n't  locate  you,  they'll  scatter  you  so. 

You  think  we  crowd  you  —  you'll  have  to  go  faster; 
You  ain't  all  steak  —  you'll  discover  that,  too; 
Wait  till  they  put  your  red  hair  into  plaster, 
Boil  down  your  hoofs  into  Stickum's  Best  Glue; 


66  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

All  of  the  grief  in  this  world  ain't  bad  weather; 
Better  lie  down  there  an'  take  a  short  snooze. 
Wait  till  they  tan  your  tough  hide  into  leather; 
Wait  till  some  feller  is  wearin'  your  shoes. 

You  don't  know  where  you  will  have  to  go  roamin', 
What  will  be  eatin'  an'  what  will  be  worn; 
Mebbe  some  woman  in  New  York  will  be  combin' 
Out  her  back  hair  with  a  piece  of  your  horn; 
Mebbe  the  same  time  your  tail  will  be  traveling 
Cooked  into  soup  for  some  tenderfoot's  feed; 
Some  of  your  hide  in  a  rope  they'll  be  ravelin', 
All  of  your  ir&aards  gone  on  a  stampede. 

Better  lie  down  there  an'  rest  up,  OF  Ranger; 
You  ain't  nigh  come  to  the  end  of  your  trail; 
Mebbe  some  woman,  to  you  perfect  stranger, 
Will  brush  up  crumbs  with  the  end  of  your  tail. 
Don't  pay  to  be  too  durn  proud  of  your  beller; 
You  ain't  the  only  bad  steer  up  north; 
Wise  to  remember  that  no  livin'  feller 
Ever  can  tell  what  a  day  will  bring  forth. 

FIGHTIN'  MAD 

Received  from  Miss  Jean  Beaumondy,  Colorado  Springs 
Round-up,  1911.  Jean  was  then  the  champion  girl  trick 
roper  of  the  world. 

I've  swum  the  Colorado  where  she  runs  down  close 

to  hell; 

I've  braced  the  faro  layouts  at  Cheyenne; 
I've  fought  at  muddy  waters  with  a  howling  bunch 

of  Sioux, 
And  I've  eaten  hot  tamales  in  Cayenne. 


FORGET  THE  EAST  67 

I've  rid  a  pitchin'  bronco  till  the  sky  was  under- 
neath; 

I've  tackled  every  desert  in  the  land; 

I've  sampled  four  X  whiskey  till  I  could  n't  hardly 
see, 

And  I've  dallied  with  the  quicksands  of  the  Grand. 

I  've  argued  with  the  marshals  of  a  half-dozen  burgs ; 
I've  been  drug  free  and  fancy  by  a  cow; 
I've  had  three  years'  campaignin'  with  the  fight- 
in',  bitin'  Ninth; 
But  I  never  lost  my  temper  till  right  now. 

I  've  had  the  yellow  fever,  I  've  been  plugged  full  of 

holes, 

I've  grabbed  an  army  mule  plumb  by  its  tail. 
But  I  never  was  fightin',  really  downright  fightin' 

mad, 
Till  you  ups  and  hands  me  that  damn  ginger  ale. 

FORGET  THE  EAST 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Oh,  come  en  ride  the  Western  range  along  with 

Blue  en  me; 
Forget  your  cares  and  worries  — jest  play  you're 

young  en  free. 
You'll  see  the  high  Cliff  Dwellings,  built  by  a  race 

of  old; 
You'll  see  the  Spanish  diggin's,  where  the  Padres 

got  their  gold; 
You'll  see  the  Penitentes  in  their  quaint  religious 

play, 
Their  crosses  en  Morada,  in  which  they  go  to  pray. 


68  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

You'll  see  the  Matachines  in  a  dance  that's  all  their 

own; 
The  wild  Comanches  on  horseback  as  they  storm 

a  native  home. 
You'll  find  there's  no  restrictions  on  what  you  have 

to  do, 
En  scenes  change  like  the  seasons,  each  day  brings 

something  new. 
Wear  old  clothes,  hunt,  fish,  en  idle;  do  exactly  as 

you  please, 
Forget  set  rules  en  schedules  —  with  a  good  horse 

between  your  knees. 

FRIJOLE  BEANSES 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

1919 

I've  cooked  you  in  the  strongest  gypsum  water; 
I've  boiled  you  up  in  water  made  of  snow; 
I've  eaten  you  above  the  Arctic  Circle, 
I've  chewed  on  you  in  southern  Mexico. 
In  the  camp-fire,  on  the  stove,  or  in  the  oven, 
Or  buried  in  the  ashes  overnight, 
You've  saved  my  life  on  more  than  one  occasion  — 
Oh,  frijole  bean,  you're  simply  out  of  sight. 

Of  course  you  know,  as  far  as  one's  digestion 
Is  concerned,  you'd  ever  break  it  plumb  in  two 
Without  a  single  moment's  hesitation  — 
Least  that's  the  reputation  given  you. 
Well  here 's  to  your  health,  you  little  brown  frijole, 
Your  health  I'll  pledge  and  by  you  always  stand; 
You're  eaten  by  the  rich  and  by  the  lowly, 
You're  an  outlawed  product  of  our  Western  land. 


THE  GAL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME         69 

Oh,  little  bean  about  you's  such  a  savor, 

Such  a  muchness,  such  a  taste  that  you  have  got; 

A  particularly  satisfying  flavor 

When  we've  added  sow  and  chile  to  the  pot. 

Then  good-bye,  my  little  pard,  I  hate  to  leave  you, 

You've  been  with  me  on  many  a  long  hike; 

So  I'll  eat  the  last  of  you  that  is  in  the  skillet, 

Then  saddle  up  old  buck  and  hit  the  pike. 

THE  GAL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME 

This  song  is  so  old  that  all  the  descendants  of  the  author, 
"/  understand,"  have  died  of  old  age.  I  believe  it  was  the 
first  cow  song  I  ever  heard. 

I  struck  the  trail  in  seventy-nine, 

The  herd  strung  out  behind  me; 

As  I  jogged  along  my  mind  ran  back 

For  the  gal  I  left  behind  me. 

That  sweet  little  gal,  that  true  little  gal, 

The  gal  I  left  behind  me  I 

If  ever  I  get  off  the  trail 

And  the  Indians  they  don't  find  me, 

I'll  make  my  way  straight  back  again 

To  the  gal  I  left  behind  me. 

That  sweet  little  gal,  that  true  little  gal, 

The  gal  I  left  behind  mel 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  rain  did  flow, 

The  hail  did  fall  and  blind  me; 

I  thought  of  that  gal,  that  sweet  little  gal, 

That  gal  I'd  left  behind  me ! 

That  sweet  little  gal,  that  true  little  gal, 

The  gal  I  left  behind  me ! 


70  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

She  wrote  ahead  to  the  place  I  said, 

I  was  always  glad  to  find  it; 

She  says,  "  I  am  true ;  when  you  get  through, 

Ride  back  and  you  will  find  me." 

That  sweet  little  gal,  that  true  little  gal, 

The  gal  I  left  behind  me ! 

When  we  sold  out,  I  took  the  train, 
I  knew  where  I  would  find  her; 
When  I  got  back  we  had  a  smack, 
And  that  was  no  gol-darned  liar. 
That  sweet  little  gal,  that  true  little  gal, 
The  gal  I  left  behind  me! 


GET  ALONG,  LITTLE  DOGIES  n 

Heard  this  song  sung  in  Tombstone,  Arizona,  by  Jim 
Falls. 

As  I  walked  out  one  morning  for  pleasure, 

I  spied  a  cow-puncher  all  riding  alone ; 

His  hat  throwed  back  and  his  spurs  was  a-jinglin' 

As  he  approached  me  a-singin'  this  song: 

Whoopee  ti  yi  yo,  git  along,  little  dogies, 
It's  your  misfortune,  and  none  of  my  own. 
Whoopee  ti  yi  yo,  git  along,  little  dogies, 
For  you  know  Wyoming  will  be  your  new  home. 

Early  in  the  spring  we  round  up  the  dogies, 
Mark  and  brand  and  bob  off  their  tails; 
Round  up  our  horses,  load  up  the  chuck-wagon, 
Then  throw  the  dogies  upon  the  North  trail. 


THE  GOL-DARNED  WHEEL  7* 

It's  whoopin'  and  yellin'  and  drivin'  the  dogies; 
Oh,  how  I  wish  you  would  go  on; 
It's  whoopin'  and  punchin',  go  on,  little  dogies, 
For  you  know  Wyoming  will  be  your  new  home. 

Some  boys  go  up  the  trail  for  pleasure, 
But  that's  where  you  get  it  most  awfully  wrong; 
For  you  have  n't  an  idea  the  trouble  they  give  us 
While  we  go  drivin'  them  all  along. 

Your  mother  she  was  raised  'way  down  in  Texas, 
Where  the  jimson  weed  and  sand-burrs  grow; 
Now  we  '11  fill  you  up  on  prickly  pear  and  cholla, 
Till  you  are  ready  for  the  trail  to  Idaho. 

Oh,  you'll  be  soup  for  Uncle  Sam's  Injuns; 
"It's  beef,  heap  beef,"  I  hear  them  cry. 
Git  along,  git  along,  little  dogies, 
You're  goin*  to  be  beef  steers  by  and  by. 

THE  GOL-DARNED  WHEEL 

Mailed  me  by  a  friend  from  Marfa,  Texas,  who  heard  it 
sung  by  a  cow-puncher  named  Hudspeth. 

I  can  take  the  wildest  bronco  in  the  tough  old  woolly 

West; 
I  can  ride  him,  I  can  break  him,  let  him  do  his  level 

best; 

I  can  handle  any  cattle  who  ever  wore  a  coat  of  hair, 
And  I've  had  a  lively  russle  with  a  tarnal  grizzly 

bear; 
I  can  rope  and  throw  the  longhorn  of  the  wildest 

Texas  brand, 
And  in  Indian  disagreements  I  can  play  a  leading 

hand; 


72  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

But  at  last  I  got  my  master,  and  he  surely  made  me 

squeal, 
When  the  boys  got  me  a-straddle  of  that  gol-darned 

wheel. 

It  was  at  the  Eagle  Ranch  on  the  Brazos, 

When  I  first  found  that  darned  contrivance  that 

upset  me  in  the  dust. 
A  tenderfoot  had  brought  it;  he  was  wheeling  all 

the  way 

From  the  sunrise  end  of  freedom  out  to  San  Fran- 
cisco Bay. 

He  tied  up  at  the  ranch  for  to  get  outside  a  meal, 
Never  thinkin'  we  would  monkey  with  his  gol- 
darned  wheel. 

Arizona  Jim  begun  it  when  he  said  to  Jack  McGill, 

There  was  fellows  forced  to  limit  braggin*  on  their 
ridin'  skill; 

And  he'd  venture  the  admission  the  same  fellow 
that  he  meant 

Was  a  very  handy  critter  far  as  ridin'  broncos  went; 

But  he  would  find  that  he  was  buckin'  'gainst  a  dif- 
ferent kind  of  deal 

If  he  threw  his  leather  leggins  'gainst  a  gol-darned 
wheel. 

Such  a  slam  against  my  talent  made  me  hotter  than 

a  mink, 
And  I  swore  that  I  would  ride  him  for  amusement  or 

for  chink. 
And  it  was  nothin'  but  a  plaything  for  the  kids  and 

such  about, 


THE  GOL-DARNED  WHEEL  73 

And  they'd  have  their  ideas  shattered  if  they'd  lead 
the  critter  out. 

They  held  it  while  I  mounted  and  gave  the  word 
to  go; 

The  shove  they  gave  to  start  me  warn't  unreason- 
ably slow. 

But  I  never  spilled  a  cuss-word  and  I  never  spilled 
a  squeal  — 

I  was  buildin'  reputation  on  that  gol-darned  wheel. 

Holy  Moses  and  the  Prophets  how  we  split  the 

Texas  air, 
And  the  wind  it  made  whip-crackers  of  my  same  old 

canthy  hair, 

And  sorta  comprehended  as  down  the  hill  we  went 
There  was  bound  to  be  a  smash-up  that  I  could  n't 

well  prevent. 
Oh,  how  them  punchers  bawled,  "  Stay  with  her, 

Uncle  Bill! 
Stick  your  spurs  in  her,  you  sucker,  turn  her  muzzle 

up  the  hill!" 
But  I  never  made  an  answer;  I  just  let  the  cusses 

squeal, 
I  was  buildin'  reputation  on  that  gol-darned  wheel. 

The  grade  was  mighty  slopin'  from  the  ranch  down 

to  the  creek, 
And  I  went  a-galliflutin'  like  a  crazy   lightnin' 

streak  — 
Went  whizzin'  and  a-dartin'  first  this  way  and  then 

that, 
The  darned  contrivance  sort  o'  wobbling  like  the 

flyin'  of  a  bat. 


74  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

I  pulled  upon  the  handles,  but  I  could  n't  check  it  up, 
And  I  yanked  and  sawed  and  hollowed,  but  the 

darned  thing  would  n't  stop. 

Then  a  sort  of  a  thinker  in  my  brain  began  to  steal, 
That  the  devil  held  a  mortgage  on  that  gol-darned 

wheel. 

I've  sort  o'  dim  and  hazy  remembrance  of  the  stop, 
With  the  world  a-goin'  round  and  the  stars  all 

tangled  up; 
Then  there  came  an  intermission  that  lasted  till  I 

found 
I  was  lyin'  at  the  ranch  with  the  boys  all  gathered 

round, 
And  a  doctor  was  sewin'  on  the  skin  where  it  was 

ripped, 
And  old  Arizona  whispered,  "  Well,  old  boy,  I  guess 

you're  whipped." 
And  I  told  him  I  was  busted  from  sombrero  down 

to  heel, 
And  he  grinned  and  said,  "You  ought  to  see  that 

gol-darned  wheel." 

GREASER  JOE'S  PLACE 
From  the  "Denver  Republican." 

You  kin  brag  of  city  caffeys  and  their  trout  from 
streams  and  lakes. 

Of  their  meals  served  a  la  carty  and  their  mush- 
rooms and  their  steaks; 

But  the  grub  at  Greaser  Joe's  is  the  finest  ever  dealt : 

Come,  hombrey,  and  jest  tuck  a  bowl  of  chile 
'neathyour  belt  I 


THE  GREAT  ROUND-UP  75 

The  music 's  kind  o'  skimpin'  and  it  don't  go  very  far ; 
It's  dealt  out  by  a  half-breed  and  a  mighty  bad 

guitar; 

But  old  Joe  is  a  winner  when  it  comes  to  mixin'  dope, 
And  the  first  smell  of  his  chile  'd  give  a  dyin*  hoss- 

thief  hope. 

There  is  sometimes  rough  stunts  doin'  and  p'r'aps 

some  powder  burnt, 
For  the  men  who  eat  at  Joe's  all  the  p'litest  ways 

ain't  learnt; 
But  good  food  is  like  to  most  things  that  are  scarce 

and  hard  to  get  — 
It's  worth  some  risk  in  trallin'  and  a-makin'  yours, 

you  bet ! 

So  jest  come  with  me  to  Joe's  where  there  ain't  no 

menu  stunt, 
Where  the  tablecloths  is  minus  and  a  napkin's 

an  affront, 
And  you'll  get  a  bowl  of  chile  that'll  warm  you 

through  and  through, 
So  come  with  me  to  Jose's,  you  tenderfoot  —  yes, 

you! 

THE  GREAT  ROUND-UP 

/  first  heard  this  song  sung  by  Sally  While,  at  Toy  a, 
Texas,  in  1909,  although  a  slightly  different  version  was 
published  in  my  first  edition  of  "Songs  of  the  Cowboys." 

When  I  think  of  the  last  great  round-up, 

On  the  eve  of  eternity's  dawn, 

I  think  of  the  past  of  the  cowboys 

Who  have  been  with  us  here  and  are  gone. 


76  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

And  I  wonder  if  any  will  greet  me 
On  the  sands  of  the  evergreen  shore 
With  a  hearty,  "  God  bless  you,  old  fellow," 
That  I've  met  with  so  often  before. 

I  think  of  the  big-hearted  fellows 

Who  will  divide  with  you,  blanket  and  bread, 

With  a  piece  of  stray  beef  well  roasted, 

And  charge  for  it  never  a  red. 

I  often  look  upward  and  wonder 

If  the  green  fields  will  seem  half  so  fair, 

If  any  the  wrong  trail  have  taken 

And  fail  to  "be  in"  over  there. 

For  the  trail  that  leads  down  to  perdition 

Is  paved  all  the  way  with  good  deeds, 

But  in  the  great  round-up  of  ages, 

Dear  boys,  this  won't  answer  your  needs. 

But  the  way  to  the  green  pastures,  though  narrow, 

Leads  straight  to  the  home  in  the  sky, 

And  Jesus  will  give  you  the  passport* 

To  the  land  of  the  sweet  by  and  by. 

For  the  Saviour  has  taken  the  contract 
To  deliver  all  those  who  believe, 
At  the  headquarters  ranch  of  His  Father, 
In  the  great  range  where  none  can  deceive. 
The  Inspector  will  stand  at  the  gateway 
And  the  herd,  one  by  one,  will  go  by,  — 
The  round-up  by  the  angels  in  judgment 
Must  pass  'neath  His  all-seeing  eye. 

No  maverick  or  slick  will  be  tallied 

In  the  great  book  of  life  in  his  home, 

For  he  knows  all  the  brands  and  the  earmarks 

That  down  through  the  ages  have  come. 


HELL  IN  TEXAS  77 

But  along  with  the  tailings  and  sleepers 
The  strays  must  turn  from  the  gate ; 
No  road  brand  to  gain  them  admission, 
But  the  awful  sad  cry  of  "  too  late." 

Yet  I  trust,  in  the  last  great  round-up, 
When  the  rider  shall  cut  the  big  herd, 
That  the  cowboys  shall  be  represented 
In  the  eajmark  and  brand  of  the  Lord ; 
To  be  shipped  to  the  bright  mystic  regions 
Over  there  in  green  pastures  to  lie, 
And  led  by  the  crystal  still  waters, 
In  that  home  of  the  sweet  by  and  by. 

HELL  IN  TEXAS 

This  song  was  originally  entitled  "  The  Birth  of  New 
Mexico"  I  have  five  different  versions  of  it.  As  each 
version  is  supposed  to  be  by  a  different  author,  and  I  can 
only  procure  the  names  of  three  of  them,  I  shall  brand  it 
as  a  "maverick"  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

The  Devil  we're  told  in  hell  was  chained, 
And  a  thousand  years  he  there  remained; 
He  never  complained  nor  did  he  groan, 
But  determined  to  start  a  hell  of  his  own, 
Where  he  could  torment  the  souls  of  men 
Without  being  chained  in  a  prison  pen. 
So  he  asked  the  Lord  if  he  had  on  hand. 
Anything  left  when  he  made  the  land. 

The  Lord  said,  "  Yes,  I  had  plenty  on  hand 

But  I  left  it  down  on  the  Rio  Grande; 

The  fact  is,  old  boy,  the  stuff  is  so  poor 

I  don't  think  you  could  use  it  in  hell  any  more." 


78  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

But  the  Devil  went  down  to  look  at  the  truck, 
And  said  if  it  came  as  a  gift  he  was  stuck; 
For  after  examining  it  carefully  and  well, 
He  concluded  the  place  was  too  dry  for  hell. 

So  in  order  to  gefit  off  his  hands, 
The  Lord  promised  the  Devil  to  water  the  lands; 
For  he  had  some  water,  or  rather  some  dregs, 
A  regular  cathartic  that  smelled  like  bad  eggs. 
Hence  the  deal  was  closed  and  the  deed  was  given, 
And  the  Lord  went  back  to  his  home  in  heaven. 
And  the  Devil  then  said,  "  I  have  all  that  is  needed 
To  make  a  good  hell,"  and  hence  he  succeeded. 

He  began  to  put  thorns  in  all  of  the  trees, 
And  mixed  up  the  sand  with  millions  of  fleas; 
And  scattered  tarantulas  along  all  the  roads ; 
Put  thorns  on  the  cactus  and  horns  on  the  toads. 
He  lengthened  the  horns  of  the  Texas  steers, 
And  put  an  addition  on  the  rabbit's  ears; 
He  put  a  little  devil  in  the  bronco  steed, 
And  poisoned  the  feet  of  the  centipede. 

The  rattlesnake  bites  you,  the  scorpion  stings, 
The  mosquito  delights  you  with  buzzing  wings; 
The  sand-burrs  prevail,  and  so  do  the  ants, 
And  those  who  sit  down  need  half-soles  on  their 

pants. 

The  Devil  then  said  that  throughout  the  land 
He'd  managed  to  keep  up  the  Devil's  own  brand, 
And  all  would  be  mavericks  unless  they  bore 
The  marks  of  scratches  and  bites  and  thorns  by  the 


THE  HELL-BOUND  TRAIN  79 

The  heat  in  the  summer  is  a  hundred  and  ten, 

Too  hot  for  the  Devil  and  too  hot  for  men; 

The  wild  boar  roams  through  the  black  chaparral,  — 

It's  a  hell  of -a  place  he  has  for  a  hell! 

The  red  pepper  grows  on  the  banks  of  the  brooks; 

The  Mexicans  use  it  in  all  that  they  cook. 

Just  dine  with  a  Greaser,  and  then  you  will  shout, 

"I've  hell  on  the  inside  as  well  as  the  out." 


THE  HELL-BOUND  TRAIN 

Heard  this  sung  at  a  cow-camp  near  Pontoon  Crossing, 
on  the  Pecos  River,  by  a  puncher  named  Jack  Moore. 

A  Texas  cowboy  lay  down  on  a  barroom  floor, 
Having  drunk  so  much  he  could  drink  no  more; 
So  he  fell  asleep  with  a  troubled  brain 
To  dream  that  he  rode  on  a  hell-bound  train. 

The  engine  with  murderous  blood  was  damp, 
And  was  brilliantly  lit  with  a  brimstone  lamp; 
An  imp  for  fuel  was  shoveling  bones, 
While  the  furnace  rang  with  a  thousand  groans. 

The  boiler  was  filled  with  lager  beer, 
,  And  the  Devil  himself  was  the  engineer; 
The  passengers  were  a  most  motley  crew,  — 
Church  member,  atheist,  Gentile,  and  Jew; 

Rich  men  in  broadcloth,  beggars  in  rags; 
Handsome  young  ladies,  withered  old  hags; 
Yellow  and  black  men,  red,  brown,  and  white, 
All  chained  together,  —  O  God,  what  a  sight  1 


8o  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

While  the  train  rushed  on  at  an  awful  pace, 

The  sulphurous  fumes  scorched  their  hands  and 

face; 

Wider  and  wider  the  country  grew, 
As  faster  and  faster  the  engine  flew. 

Louder  and  louder  the  thunder  crashed, 
And  brighter  and  brighter  the  lightning  flashed; 
Hotter  and  hotter  the  air  became, 
Till  the  clothes  were  burnt  from  each  quivering 
frame. 

And  out  of  the  distance  there  arose  a  yell, 
"Ha,  ha,"  said  the  Devil,  "we're  nearing  hell!" 
Then,  oh,  how  the  passengers  shrieked  with 

pain, 
And  begged  the  Devil  to  stop  the  train. 

But  he  capered  about  and  danced  with  glee, 
And  laughed  and  joked  at  their  misery. 
"My  faithful  friends,  you  have  done  the  work, 
And  the  Devil  never  can  a  payday  shirk. 

"  You've  bullied  the  weak,  you've  robbed  the  poor; 
The  starving  brother  you've  turned  from  the  door; 
You've  laid  up  gold  where  the  canker  rust, 
And  have  given  free  vent  to  your  beastly  lust. 

"You've  justice  scorned  and  corruption  sown, 

And  trampled  the  laws  of  nature  down; 

You  have  drunk,  rioted,  cheated,  plundered,  and 

lied, 
And  mocked  at  God  in  your  hell-born  pride. 


HIGH-CHIN  BOB  81 

"  You  have  paid  full  fare,  so  I'll  carry  you  through; 
For  it's  only  right  you  should  have  your  due. 
Why,  the  laborer  always  expects  his  hire, 
So  I'll  land  you  safe  in  the  lake  of  fire  — 

"  Where  your  flesh  will  waste  in  the  flames  that  roar, 
And  my  imps  torment  you  forever  more." 
Then  the  cowboy  awoke  with  an  anguished  cry, 
His  clothes  wet  with  sweat  and  his  hair  standing  high. 

Then  he  prayed  as  he  never  had  prayed  till  that 

hour 

To  be  saved  from  his  sin  and  the  demon's  power. 
And  his  prayers  and  his  vows  were  not  in  vain; 
For  he  never  rode  the  hell-bound  train. 


HIGH-CHIN  BOB 
By  Charles  Badger  Clark,  Jr. 

This  song  was  brought  to  Santa  Fe  by  Henry  Herbert 
Knibbs,  who  got  it  from  southern  Arizona,  where  it  was 
sung  by  the  cowboys.  The  song  was  written  by  Charles 
Badger  Clark,  Jr.,  and  the  original  version  is  in  his  "Sun 
and  Saddle  Leather"  under  the  title  of  "The  Glory 
Trail." 

'Way  high  up  in  the  Mokiones,  among  the  moun- 
tain-tops, 

A  lion  cleaned  a  yearlin's  bones  and  licked  his 
thankful  chops; 

When  who  upon  the  scene  should  ride,  a-trippin' 
down  the  slope, 

But  High-Chin  Bob  of  sinful  pride  and  maverick- 
hungry  rope. 


82  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me! "  says  he,  "  an' fame's  unfadin' 

flowers, 
I  ride  my  good  top-hoss  to-day  and  I'm  top  hand 

of  the  Lazy-J, 
So  Kitty-cat,  you're  ours!" 

The  lion  licked  his  paws  so  brown  and  dreamed  soft 

dreams  of  veal, 
As  High-Chin's  loop  come  circlin'  down  and  roped 

him  round  his  meal; 
He  yowled  quick  fury  to  the  world  and  all  the  hills 

yelled  back: 
That  top-hoss  give  a  snort  and  whirled  and  Bob 

caught  up  the  slack. 

"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me! "  says  he,  "  we 'II  hit  the  glory 

trail. 
No  man  has  looped  a  lion's  head  and  lived  to  drag 

the  bugger  dead, 
Till  I  shall  tell  the  tale.n 

'Way  high  up  in  the  Mokiones  that  top-hoss  done 
his  best 

'Mid  whippin'  brush  and  rattlin'  stones  from  canon- 
floor  to  crest; 

Up  and  down  and  round  and  cross  Bob  pounded 
weak  and  wan, 

But  pride  still  glued  him  to  his  hoss  and  glory  drove 
him  on: 

"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me,"  says  he,  "  this  glory  trail  is 

rough, 
Pll  keep  this  dally  round  the  horn  until  the  toot 

of  judgment  morn, 
Before  I  holler  'nough ! " 


HIGH-CHIN  BOB  83 

Three  suns  had  rode  their  circle  home  beyond  the 
desert  rim 

And  turned  their  star  herds  loose  to  roam  the 
ranges  high  and  dim, 

And  whenever  Bob  turned  and  hoped  the  limp  re- 
mains to  find, 

A  red-eyed  lion,  belly-roped,  but  healthy,  loped 
behind! 

"Oh,  glory  be  to  me,"  says  Bob,  "he  hain't  be 

drug  to  death! 
These  heroes  that  I've  read  about  were  only  fools 

that  stuck  it  out 
To  the  end  of  mortal  breath!" 

'Way  high  up  in  the  Mokiones,  if  you  ever  come 

there  at  night, 
You'll  hear  a  ruckus  amongst  the  stones  that'll 

lift  your  hair  with  fright; 
You'll  see  a  cow-hoss  thunder  by  and  a  lion  trail 

along, 
And  the  rider  bold,  with  chin  on  high,  sings  forth 

his  glory  song; 

" Oh,  glory  be  to  me!  "  says  he,  "and  to  my  mighty 

noose! 
Oh,  pardner,  tell  my  friends  below  I  took  a  ragin' 

dream  in  tow, 
And  if  I  did  n't  lay  him  low,  —  I  never  turned  him 

loose  I n 


84  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


JOHN  GARNER'S  TRAIL  HERD 

Written  by  one  of  the  waggoners  at  Fort  Worth,  Texas, 
many  years  ago.  I  first  heard  it  sung  in  the  Spear  fish 
Valley,  Dakota. 

Come,  all  you  old-timers,  and  listen  to  my  song; 
I'll  make  it  short  as  possible  and  I'll  not  keep  you 

long; 
I'll  relate  to  you  about  the  time  you  all  remember 

well 
When  we  with  old  Joe  Garner  drove  a  beef  herd  up 

the  trail. 

When  we  left  the  ranch  it  was  early  in  the  spring, 
We  had  as  good  a  corporal  as  ever  rope  did 

swing; 
Good  hands  and  good  horses,  good  outfit  through 

and  through,  — 
We  went  well  equipped,  we  were  a  jolly  crew. 

We  had  no  little  herd  —  two  thousand  head  or 

more  — 
And  some  as  wild  brush  beeves  as  you  ever  saw 

before. 
We  swung  to  them  all  the  way  and  sometimes  by 

the  tail,  — 
Oh,  you  know  we  had  a  circus  as  we  all  went  up  the 

trail. 

Till  we  reached  the  open  plains  everything  went 

well, 
And  then  them  cattle  turned  in  and  dealt  us  merry 

hell. 


JOHN  GARNER'S  TRAIL  HERD          85 

They  stampeded  every  night  that  came  and  did  it 

without  fail,  — 
Oh,  you  know  we  had  a  circus  as  we  all  went  up  the 

trail. 

We  would  round  them  up  at  morning  and  the  boss 

would  make  a  count, 
And  say,  "Look  here,  old  punchers,  we  are  out 

quite  an  amount; 
You  must  make  all  losses  good  and  do  it  without 

fail, 
Or  you'll  never  get  another  job  driving  up  the 

trail." 

When  we  reached  Red  River  we  gave  the  Inspector 

the  dodge. 
He  swore  by  God  Almighty  in  jail  old  Joe  should 

lodge. 
We  told  him  if  he'd  taken  our  boss  and  had  him 

locked  in  jail, 
We  would  shore  get  his  scalp  as  we  all  came  down 

the  trail. 

When  we  reached  the  Reservation  how  squirmish 

we  did  feel, 
Although  we  had  tried  old  Garner  and  knew  him 

true  as  steel. 

And  if  we  would  follow  him  and  do  as  he  said  to, 
That  old  bald-headed  cow-thief  would  surely  take 

us  through 

When  we  reached  Dodge  City  we  drew  our  four 

months'  pay: 
Times  was  better  then,  boys,  than  they  are  to-day. 


86  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

The  way  we  drank  and  gambled  and  threw  the  girls 

around,  — 
"  Say,  a  crowd  of  Texas  cowboys  has  come  to  take 

our  town." 

The  cowboy  sees  many  hardships,  although  he  takes 

them  well; 
The  fun  we  had  upon  that  trip  no  human  tongue 

can  tell. 
The  cowboy's  life  is  a  dreary  life,  though  his  miad 

it  is  no  load, 
And  he  always  spends  his  money  like  he  found  it 

in  the  road. 

If  ever  you  meet  old  Garner,  you  must  meet  him  on 

the  square, 
For  he  is  the  biggest  cow-thief  that  ever  tramped 

out  there. 
But  if  you  want  to  hear  him  roar  and  spin  a  lively 

tale, 
Just  ask  him  about  the  time  we  all  went  up  the  trail. 


THE  JOLLY  COWBOY 

First  heard  this  sung  by  Dick  Wilson,  El  Paso,  Texas. 
Author  unknown. 

My  lover  is  a  cowboy,  he 's  brave  and  kind  and  true ; 

He  rides  a  Spanish  pony,  he  throws  a  lasso  too ; 

And  when  he  comes  to  see  me  our  vows  we  do  re- 
deem, 

He  throws  his  arms  around  me  and  thus  begins  to 
sing: 


THE  JOLLY  COWBOY  87 

"Ho,  I'm  a  jolly  cowboy,  from  Texas  now  I  hail; 
Give  me  my  quirt  and  pony,  I  'm  ready  for  the  trail ; 
I  love  the  rolling  prairies,  they're  free  from  care 

and  strife, 
Behind  a  herd  of  longhorns  I'll  journey  all  my  life. 

"When   early  dawn  is  breaking  and  we  are  far 

away, 

We  fall  into  our  saddles,  we  round-up  all  the  day; 
We  rope,  we  brand,  we  ear-mark,  I  tell  you  we  are 

smart, 
And  when  the  herd  is  ready  for  Kansas,  then  we 

start. 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  Texas  cowboy,  light-hearted,  brave,  and 

free, 
To  roam  the  wide,  wide  prairie,  't  is  always  fun  for 

me. 

My  trusty  little  pony  is  my  companion  true, 
O'er  creek  and  hills  and  rivers  he's  sure  to  pull  me 

through. 

"  When  threatening  clouds  do  gather  and  blinding 

lightnings  flash, 
And  heavy  raindrops  splatter  and  rolling  thunders 

crash; 
What  keeps  the  herd  from  running  stampeding  far 

and  wide? 
The  cowboy's  long,  low  whistle  and  singing  by  their 

side. 

"When  in  Kansas  City  our  boss  he  pays  us  up, 
We  loaf  around  the  city  and  take  a  parting  cup; 


88  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

We  bid  farewell  to  the  city  life,  from  noisy  crowds 

we  come, 
And  back  to  dear  old  Tezas,  the  cowboy's  native 

home." 

Oh,  he  is  coming  back  to  marry  the  only  girl  he 

loves; 

He  says  I  am  his  darling,  I  am  his  own  true  love; 
Some  day  we  two  will  marry  and  then  no  more  he  '11 

roam, 
But  settle  down  with  Mary  in  a  cozy  little  home. 

"Ho,  I'm  a  jolly  cowboy,  from  Texas  now  I  hail, 
Give  me  my  bond  to  Mary,  I  '11  quit  the  Lone  Star 

trail. 
I  love  the  rolling  prairies,  they're  free  from  care 

and  strife, 
But  I'll  quit  the  herd  of  longhorns  for  the  sake  of  my 

little  wife." 


THE  LAST  LONGHORN 

I  have  been  unable  to  trace  the  authorship  of  this  song. 
Have  heard  it  sung  in  many  places  and  also  recited. 

An  ancient  long-horned  bovine 

Lay  dying  by  the  river; 

There  was  lack  of  vegetation 

And  the  cold  winds  made  him  shiver; 

A  cowboy  sat  beside  him, 

With  sadness  in  his  face, 

To  see  his  final  passing,  — 

This  last  of  a  noble  race. 


THE  LAST  LONGHORN  89 

The  ancient  eunuch  struggled 
And  raised  his  shaking  head, 
Saying,  "  I  care  not  to  linger 
When  all  my  friends  are  dead. 
These  Jerseys  and  these  Holsteins, 
They  are  no  friends  of  mine; 
They  belong  to  the  nobility 
Who  live  across  the  brine. 

"  Tell  the  Durhams  and  the  Herefords 
When  they  come  a-grazing  round, 
And  see  me  lying  stark  and  stiff 
Upon  the  frozen  ground, 
I  don't  want  them  to  bellow 
When  they  see  that  I  am  dead, 
For  I  was  born  in  Texas, 
Near  the  river  that  is  Red. 

"Tell  the  coyotes,  when  they  come  at  night, 
A-hunting  for  their  prey, 
They  might  as  well  go  further, 
For  they'll  find  it  will  not  pay: 
If  they  attempt  to  eat  me 
They  very  soon  will  see 
That  my  bones  and  hide  are  petrified,  — 
They'll  find  no  beef  on  me. 

"  I  remember  in  the  seventies, 
Full  many  summers  past, 
There  was  grass  and  water  plenty, 
But  it  was  too  good  to  last. 
I  little  dreamed  what  would  happen 
Some  twenty  summers  hence, 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


When  the  nester  came  with  his  wife,  his  kids, 

His  dogs,  and  his  barbed-wire  fence." 

His  voice  sank  to  a  murmur, 

His  breath  was  short  and  quick; 

The  cowboy  tried  to  skin  him 

When  he  saw  he  could  n't  kick; 

He  rubbed  his  knife  upon  his  boot 

Until  he  made  it  shine, 

But  he  never  skinned  old  longhorn, 

'Caze  he  could  n't  cut  his  rine. 

And  the  cowboy  riz  up  sadly 

And  mounted  his  cayuse, 

Saying,  "  The  time  has  come  when  longhorns 

And  cowboys  are  no  use." 

And  while  gazing  sadly  backward 

Upon  the  dead  bovine 

His  bronc  stepped  in  a  dog-hole 

And  fell  and  broke  his  spine. 

The  cowboys  and  the  longhorns 
Who  pardnered  in  eighty-four 
Have  gone  to  their  last  round-up 
Over  on  the  other  shore  ; 
They  answered  well  their  purpose, 
But  their  glory  must  fade  and  go, 
Because  men  say  there's  better  things 
In  the  modern  cattle  show. 


LAS  VEGAS  REUNION  91 

LAS  VEGAS  REUNION 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Written  for  the  annual  Las  Vegas,  New  Mexico,  Re- 
union. 

Come  on,  all  you  cow-punchers, 
To  the  round-up  in  July, 
Where  the  Busters  get  together, 
En  the  old  broncs  go  sky-high; 
We've  got  'em  spoiled  en  tricky, 
Outlaws  from  far  en  near, 
En  we  've  got  the  boys  to  fork  'em, 
Who  know  not  the  word  of  fear. 


The  cry  of  all  the  cowboys  now 

Is  "To  the  Meadow  City  or  bust!" 

From  far  Colorado's  borders 

They  come  a-spurrin'  through  the  dust. 

You  don't  see  prairie-schooners 

A-headin'  now  this  way, 

But  'mobiles  come  by  thousands 

To  the  Reunion's  openin'  day  I 

Cow-girls  from  far  Montana 

En  the  little  Prairie  Rose, 

They  can  ride  'em  slick  en  keerless 

Es  everybody  knows ; 

So  come  on  to  the  Meadow  City, 

The  key's  thrown  plumb  away, 

En  everybody  's  welcome 

To  the  Cowboy's  openin'  dayl 


92  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Chorus 

With  angora  chaps  en  carnival  hats, 
Checked  shirts  en  handkerchiefs  loud, 
Come  straddle  yer  horse  en  ride  with  us, 
Come  ride  with  the  Wild  West  crowd! 
Per  we're  jest  cow-eatin'  persons, 
There's  a  welcome  fer  every  one; 
So  whip  up  yer  horse  en  lope  across 
To  the  Cowboys'  Re-un-ion! 


"'LIGHT,  STRANGER,  'LIGHT" 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

For  this  is  the  law  of  the  Western  range, 
When  a  stranger  hails  in  sight  — 
"Jest  tie  up  your  hoss  in  the  old  corral, 
En  'light,  stranger,  'light!" 

'T  is  a  land  of  hospitable  people, 
You're  welcome  in  daytime  or  night; 
Always  one  more  chair  at  the  table, 
So  it's  '"Light,  stranger,  'light!" 

We  don't  ask  no  inquisitive  questions, 
If  your  people  are  native  or  white; 
At  our  ranch  you  will  find  you  are  welcome, 
So  it's  "'Light,  stranger,  'light!" 

You  may  be  an  outlaw,  or  preacher, 
Got  into  some  place  kinda  tight  — 
Some  day  you'll  return  the  favor, 
So  it's  "  'Light,  stranger,  'light!" 


LITTLE  ADOBE  CASA  93 

We  are  just  plain  cow-folks  in  Texas, 
But  you  11  find  we  are  all  about  right; 
You  may  stay  for  a  year  and  be  welcome, 
So  it's  "'Light,  stranger,  'light!", 

LITTLE  ADOBE  CASA 
By  Tom  Beasley 

Written  in  the  spring  of  1887  and  sung  in  the  cow-camps 
by  the  author,  who  had  a  good  voice.  While  Beasley 
was  working  for  me  I  heard  him  sing  the  song.  There 's 
a  story  about  a  nugget  of  gold,  Henry  Heap  (the  bank 
watchman  in  El  Paso),  and  Tom  Beasley  that  some  of 
you  old-timers  may  recall,  but  I  can'/  write  it  here. 
Remember  ? 

Just  one  year  ago  to-day, 

I  left  my  Eastern  home, 

Hunting  for  a  fortune  and  for  fame. 

Little  did  I  think  that  now 

I'd  be  in  Mexico 

In  this  little  adobe  casa  on  the  plains. 

Chorus 

The  roof  is  ocateo, 
The  coyotes  far  and  near; 
The  Greaser  roams  about  the  place  all  day; 
Centipedes  and  tarantulas 
Crawl  o'er  me  while  I  sleep 
In  my  little  adobe  casa  on  the  plains. 

Alacranies  on  the  ceiling, 
Cucarachas  on  the  wall, 
My  bill-of-fare  is  always  just  the  same; 
Frijoles  and  tortillas 


94  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Stirred  up  in  chile  sauce 

In  my  little  adobe  casa  on  the  plains. 

But  if  some  dark-eyed  mujer 

Would  consent  to  be  my  wife, 

I  would  try  to  be  contented  and  remain 

'Til  fate  should  show  a  better  place 

To  settle  down  for  life 

Than  this  little  adobe  casa  on  the  plains. 


THE  LITTLE  COW-GIRL 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Daddy  come  from  Brownsville, 
En  Maw  from  San  Antone; 
We  come  here  in  a  wagon 
That  ud  rock  en  squeak  en  groan; 

We  brought  our  stock  en  horses; 
i  The  Boys  come  on  afore; 
En  Dad  was  playin'  all  the  way 
"  Old  Turkey  in  the  Straw  "1 

There's  me  en  Sister  Annie, 
En  Tom,  en  Si,  en  Budd; 
We  all  was  raised  with  cattle, 
So  I  guess  it's  in  our  blood; 

En  I  shore  love  the  dances  — 
Folks  say  I  take  after  Maw  — 
When  Dad  takes  down  his  fiddle 
En  plays  "Turkey  in  the  Straw"! 


THE  LITTLE  COW-GIRL  95 

We  ain't  jest  much  on  stylish, 
But  we  got  a  good  Home  Ranch, 
En  the  little  old  horse-pasture 
Runs  clear  down  to  the  branch. 

En  we  're  all  plumb  contented 
Since  Dad  put  hinges  on  the  door, 
En  with  his  old  brown  fiddle 
Plays  "Turkey  in  the  Straw"! 

I  got  er  pair  er  shop-made  boots 
That  Dad  had  made  fer  me, 
Er  pair  er  silver-mounted  spurs 
Es  pretty  es  can  be; 

We  ride  ter  all  the  dances, 
En  when  I  get  on  the  floor, 
I'm  sure  to  hear  Dad  playin* 
"  Old  Turkey  in  the  Straw"  I 

I  've  got  a  young  cow-puncher  roped, 

I've  got  'im  on  my  string, 

En  everything  is  lovely, 

We'll  be  married  in  the  spring; 

Es  we  ain't  much  on  religion, 
We'll  be  married  by  the  Law, 
En  I  kin  hear  Dad  playin' 
"Old  Turkey  in  the  Straw"! 


96  SONGS  OF  THE   COWBOYS 


LITTLE  JOE,  THE  WRANGLER    . 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Written  by  me  on  trail  of  herd  of O  Cattle  from  Chimney 
Lake,  New  Mexico,  to  Higgins,  Texas,  1898.  On  trail 
were  the  following  men,  all  from  Sacramento  Mountains, 
or  Crow  Flat:  Pap  Logan,  Bill  Elevens,  Will  Brownfield, 
Will  Fenton,  Lije  Colfelt,  Tom  Mews,  Frank  Jones,  and 
myself.  It  was  copyrighted  and  appeared  in  my  first  edi- 
tion of  "Songs  of  the  Cowboys,"  published  in  1908. 

Little  Joe,  the  wrangler,  will  never  wrangle  more ; 

His  days  with  the  "remuda"  —  they  are  done. 
'T  was  a  year  ago  last  April  he  joined  the  outfit  here, 

A  little  "  Texas  stray"  and  all  alone. 

'T  was  long  late  in  the  evening  he  rode  up  to  the  herd 
On  a  little  old  brown  pony  he  called  Chow; 

With  his  brogan  shoes  and  overalls  a  harder-look- 
ing kid, 
You  never  in  your  life  had  seen  before. 

His  saddle 't  was  a  Southern  kack  built  many  years 

ago, 

An  O.K.  spur  on  one  foot  idly  hung, 
While  his  "hot  roll"  in  a  cotton  sack  was  loosely 

tied  behind 
And  a  canteen  from  the  saddle  horn  he'd  slung. 

He  said  he  had  to  leave  his  home,  his  daddy 'd 

married  twice, 

And  his  new  ma  beat  him  every  day  or  two; 
So  he  saddled  up  old  Chow  one  night  and  "  lit  a 

shuck"  this  way  — 
Thought  he  'd  try  and  paddle  now  his  own  canoe. 


LITTLE  JOE,  THE  WRANGLER          97 

Said  he'd  try  and  do  the  best  he  could  if  we'd  only 

give  him  work, 
Though  he  did  n't  know  "straight"  up  about  a 

cow; 
So  the  boss  he  cut  him  out  a  mount  and  kinder  put 

him  on, 
For  he  sorter  liked  the  little  stray  somehow. 

Taught  him  how  to  herd  the  horses  and  learn  to 

know  them  all, 

To  round  'em  up  by  daylight;  if  he  could 
To  follow  the  chuck-wagon  and  to  always  hitch  the 

team 
And  help  the  "  cosinero  "  rustle  wood. 

We'd  driven  to  Red  River  and  the  weather  had 

been  fine; 

We  were  camped  down  on  the  south  side  in  a  bend, 
When  a  norther    commenced   blowing    and    we 

doubled  up  our  guards, 
For  it  took  all  hands  to  hold  the  cattle  then. 

Little  Joe,  the  wrangler,  was  called  out  with  the  rest, 
And  scarcely  had  the  kid  got  to  the  herd, 

When  the  cattle  they  stampeded;  like  a  hailstorm, 

long  they  flew, 
And  all  of  us  were  riding  for  the  lead. 

'Tween  the  streaks  of  lightning  we  could  see  a 

horse  far  out  ahead  — 
T  was  little  Joe,  the  wrangler,  in  the  lead; 
He  was  riding  "  Old  Blue  Rocket "  with  his  slicker 

'bove  his  head, 
Trying  to  check  the  leaders  in  their  speed. 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


At  last  we  got  them  milling  and  kinder  quieted 

down, 

And  the  extra  guard  back  to  the  camp  did  go; 
But  one  of  them  was  mis  sin',  and  we  all  knew  at  a 

glance 
'T  was  our  little  Texas  stray  —  poor  Wrangler  Joe. 

Next  morning  just  at  sunup  we  found  where  Rocket 

fell, 

Down  in  a  washout  twenty  feet  below; 
Beneath  his  horse,  mashed  to  a  pulp,  his  spurs  had 

rung  the  knell 
For  our  little  Texas  stray  —  poor  Wrangler  Joe. 

LOVE  ON  THE  RANGE 

I  got  this  from  Doc  Henderson  at  an  Albuquerque  Live 
Stock  Association  meeting. 

Little  gal,  I'm  not  a  singer;  if  I  were  I'd  sing  to  you 

A  tale  of  love  that  sure  would  be  a  wonder; 

It  would  beat  them  opry  singers  when  they  sing, 

"  Love  I  '11  be  true  — 
As  true  as  moon  and  stars  a-shining  yonder." 

My  hands  are  big,  and  clumsy  —  I  can't  pick  the 

light  guitar; 

And  no  doubt  you'll  say  my  lingo's  idle  prattle; 
But  what  can  you  expect?   I'm  from  the  Double 

Circle-Bar, 
Where  all  my  fingers  learned  was  punching  cattle. 

I  know  the  trail  blindfolded  and  I  never  knew  a  fear, 
For  I've  followed  it  for  years,  honeysuckle; 


A  MAN  NAMED  HODS  gg 

I  can  shoot  and  throw  a  rope  and  brand  a  crazy, 

locoed  steer  — 
I  can  ride  a  bucking  bronc  and  make  him  knuckle. 

I  can  quiet  restless  cattle  when  the  leader's  getting 

wild, 

And  the  lightning  flash  is  'nuff  to  make  you  dizzy; 
I  can  soothe  'em  like  a  mother  when  she's  croonin' 

to  her  child  — 
But  it  something  makes  a  man  get  might  busy  I 

But  my  song  — it's  meek  and  humble;  there  is 

nothing  I  can  sing 

That  in  any  way  my  sentiments  can  utter; 
Since  I  saw  your  flashing  eye,  your  winning  smile 

—  yes,  everything 
In  your  outfit  —  they  have  set  my  heart  a-flutter. 

So,  Chiquita,  if  you'll  let  me,  I  would  like  to  brand 

you  mine  — 
Will  you  share  with  me  the  storms  and  sunny 

weather? 
Ah !  Your  arms,  your  lips,   Chiquita  —  they  are 

sweeter  than  old  wine ! 
Come,  we'll  hit  life's  trail  and  follow  it  —  together! 

A  MAN  NAMED  HODS 

Heard  this  first  over  on  the  Via  Grande,  sung  by  a 
puncher  named  Liston. 

Come,  all  you  old  cow-punchers,  a  story  I  will  tell, 
And  if  you'll  all  be  quiet,  I  sure  will  sing  it  well; 
And  if  you  boys  don't  like  it,  you  can  all  go  to  hell. 


ioo  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Back  in  the  day  when  I  was  young,  I  knew  a  man 

named  Hods; 
He  was  n't  fit  fer  nothin'  cep  turnin'  up  the  clods. 

Buthe  came  West  in  fifty-three  behind  apair  of  mules 
And  't  was  hard  to  tell  between  the  three  which 
was  the  biggest  fools. 

Up  on  the  plains  old  Hods  he  got  —  there  his 

trouble  began. 
Oh,  he  sure  did  get  in  trouble,  —  and  old  Hodsie 

was  a  man. 

He  met  a  bunch  of  Indian  bucks  led  by  Geronimo, 
And  what  them  Indians  did  to  him  —  well,  shorely 
I  don't  know. 

But  they  lifted  off  old  Hodsie's  skelp  and  left  him 

out  to  die, 
And  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  he'd  been  in  the 

sweet  by  and  by. 

But  I  packed  him  to  Santa  Fe,  and  there  I  found  his 
mules, 

For  them  dad-blamed  two  critters  had  got  the  In- 
dians fooled. 

I  don't  know  how  they  done  it,  but  they  shore  did 

get  away, 
And  them  two  is  livin'  up  to  this  very  day. 

Old  Hodsie's  feet  got  toughened  up;  he  got  to  be 

a  sport; 
He  opened  up  a  gamblin'  house  and  a  plaee  of  low 

resort;      .  •  ,.r 


THE  MULE- SKINNERS  101 

He  got  the  prettiest  dancing  girls  that  ever  could 

be  found,  — 
Them  girls'  feet  was  like  rubber  balls,  they  never 

stayed  on  the  ground. 

And  then  thar  came  Billy  the  Kid,  he  envied  Hod- 

sie's  wealth; 
He  told  old  Hods  to  leave  the  town,  't  would  be 

better  for  his  health; 
Old  Hodsie  took  the  hint  and  got,  but  he  carried 

all  his  wealth. 

And  he  went  back  to  Noo  York  State  with  lots  of 

dinero 
And  now  they  say  he's  senator,  but  of  that  I  shore 

don't  know. 

THE  MULE-SKINNERS 

Got  this  song  from  John  Caldwell,  at  Lake  Valley,  New 
Mexico.  He  was  bronco-buster  for  S.L.C.  outfit. 

In  readin'  the  story  of  early  days,  it's  a  cause  of 

much  personal  pain 
At  the  way  the  author-men  leave  out  us  in  charge 

of  the  wagon  train ; 
Granted  the  rest  of  'em  worked  and  fit  in  the  best 

way  that  they  could  do  — 
If  it  was  n't  for  us  that  skinned  the  mules,  how 

would  the  bunch  have  come  through? 

We  have  frosted  ourselves  on  the  prairie  sweeps 

a-bringin'  the  Sioux  to  book, 
And  the  sojer  men  never  had  no  kick  that  the  front 

rank  had  been  forsook;     ' 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


They  cussed  warm  holes  in  the  blizzard's  teeth 
when  waitin'  fer  grub  and  tents, 

But  the  comforts  of  home  we  allus  brung  though 
at  times  at  our  expense. 

We  have  sweated  and  swore  in  the  desert  land 

where  the  white  sand  glares  like  snow, 
A-rompin'  around  forty  rods  from  hell  playin'  tag 

with  Geronimo; 
We  larruped  the  jacks  when  the  bullets  flew  and 

then  when  't  was  gettin'  too  hot, 
We  used  for  our  breastworks  mules,  dead  mules, 

and  we  give  'em  back  shot  for  shot. 

We  never  was  rigged  up  purty,  of  course,  and  we 

did  n't  talk  too  perlite, 
But  we  brung  up  the  joltin'  wagon  train  to  the  trail 

end  of  every  fight; 
We  made  a  trail  through  the  hostile  lands  and  our 

whip  was  the  victory's  key, 
So  why  in  the  name  of  all  that's  fair  can't  we  figger 

in  history? 


MUSTANG  GRAY 

Authorship  credited  to  Tom  Grey,  Tularosa,  New  Mexico. 
I  first  heard  it  sung  by  a  man  named  Sanford,  who  kept 
a  saloon  in  La  Ascension,  Mexico,  about  1888. 

There  was  a  brave  old  Texan, 
They  called  him  Mustang  Gray; 
He  left  his  home  when  but  a  youth, 
Went  ranging  far  away. 


MUSTANG  GRAY  103 

But  he  '11  go  no  more  a-ranging, 
The  savage  to  affright; 
He  has  heard  his  last  war-whoop, 
And  fought  his  last  fight. 

He  ne'er  would  sleep  within  a  tent, 
No  comforts  would  he  know; 
But  like  a  brave  old  Tex-i-can, 
A-ranging  he  would  go. 

When  Texas  was  invaded 

By  a  mighty  tyrant  foe, 

He  mounted  his  noble  war-horse, 

And  a-ranging  he  did  go. 

Once  he  was  taken  prisoner, 
Bound  in  chains  upon  the  way; 
He  wore  the  yoke  of  bondage 
Through  the  streets  of  Monterey. 

A  senorita  loved  him, 

And  followed  by  his  side; 

She  opened  the  gates  and  gave  to  him 

Her  father's  steed  to  ride. 

God  bless  the  sefiorita, 

The  belle  of  Monterey, 

She  opened  wide  the  prison  door, 

And  let  him  ride  away. 

And  when  his  veteran's  life  was  spent, 

It  was  his  last  command 

To  bury  him  on  Texas  soil 

Off  the  banks  of  the  Rio  Grande; 


104  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

And  there  the  lonely  traveler, 
When  passing  by  his  grave, 
Will  shed  a  farewell  tear 
O'er  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 

And  he'll  go  no  more  a-ranging, 
The  savage  to  affright; 
He  has  heard  his  last  war-whoop, 
And  fought  his  last  fight. 


MY  LITTLE  BROWN  MULE 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Written  in  1912,  at  Santa  Fe,  concerning  a  pet  trick  mule 
I  owned. 

His  mammy's  a  burro,  his  daddy's  a  horse; 
Of  course  you'll  all  think  it's  a  mighty  queer  cross. 
He's  got  brains  in  his  eyes,  he's  nary  a  fool; 
As  smart  as  a  cricket,  my  little  brown  mule. 

He's  always  in  mischief,  he'll  shy  at  a  bug; 
When  he  sees  a  tin  Lizzy  he'll  jump  like  a  frog; 
He 's  a  voice  like  a  trumpet,  his  coat 's  always  bright ; 
He's  as  gentle  as  can  be  if  the  cinch  is  n't  tight. 

Just  pull  on  that  flank  cinch  a  little  too  long 
And  he  won't  do  a  thing  till  you  are  mounted  and  on ; 
Then  farewell,  relations,  good-bye  to  the  crowd, 
For  you  are  off  on  a  journey  high  up  in  the  clouds. 

At  night  I  don't  stake  him,  just  turn  him  foot-loose, 
And  inside  of  two  hours  he's  as  full  as  a  goose; 


NEW  NATIONAL  ANTHEM  105 

He's  a  great  old  camp-robber  when  the  boys  are  in 

bed  — 
Roots  among  the  bake  ovens  for  bacon  and  bread. 

He's  a  great  one  to  wrangle  on,  he  knows  every 

horse, 
And  if  one  of  'em's  missing  he's  as  mad  as  the 

boss; 
His  sense  just  come  natural,  he  was  never  in 

school, 
He 's  as  wise  as  a  parson,  my  little  brown  mule. 

Did  you  ask  if  I'd  sell  him  —  well,  not  on  your 

life; 

The  day  we  were  married  I  gave  him  to  the  wife ; 
And  now  two  of  my  kids  daily  ride  him  to  school; 
Oh,  no,  money  can't  buy  him,  my  little  brown 

mule. 

NEW  NATIONAL  ANTHEM 

Accredited  to  Burr  Sims.   Heard  it  sung  at  a  matador 
camp  in  the  Panhandle  of  Texas. 

My  country,  't  is  of  thee, 
Land  where  things  used  to  be 
So  cheap  we  croak. 
Land  of  the  mavericks, 
Land  of  the  puncher's  tricks, 
Thy  culture-inroad  picks 
The  hide  of  this  peeler-bloke. 

Some  of  the  punchers  swear 
That  what  they  eat  and  wear 


106  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Takes  all  their  calves. 
Others  vow  that  they 
Eat  only  once  a  day 
Jerked  beef  and  prairie  hay, 
Washed  down  with  tallow  salves. 

These  salty  dogs  but  crave, 
To  pull  them  out  the  grave, 
Just  one  Kiowa  spur. 
They  know  they  still  will  dine 
On  flesh  and  beef  the  time; 
But  give  us,  Lord  divine, 
One  "  hen-fruit  stir." 

Our  father's  land,  with  thee, 

Best  trails  of  liberty, 

We  chose  to  stop. 

We  don't  exactly  like 

So  soon  to  henceward  hike, 

But,  hell,  we'll  take  the  pike 

If  this  don't  stop. 


NIGGER  "'LASSES":  THREE-BLOCK 
BRONCO-BUSTER 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

He  ca-su-ied  *  wid  me,  most  ruinous, 

Till  ma  haid  jest  popped  de  ceilin', 

Ma  stummick  got  tangled  up  wid  my  feet 

Till  it  done  lost  all  feelin' ; 

Ma  old  black  nose  commenced  ter  bleed, 

*  Ca-su-ied,  southern  Texas  word  for  bucking. 


NIGGER  'LASSES  107 

Everything  went  round; 

When  I  waked  up  in  a  hour  er  two, 

I  was  spraddled  on  de  ground  1 

En  I  was  jest  a-hummin',  — 

Oh,  dere  ain't  no  horse  what  can't  be  rode, 
Dot's  what  de  white  folks  say! 
En  dere  ain't  a  man  what  can't  be  throwed, 
OH,  MAH!  — 

I  finds  it  jest  dot  way! 

Den  dey  cotched  dat  horse  too  quick  to  suit, 

En  brought  him  back  ter  me, 

En  I  hobbled  my  stirrups  ea  wrapped  my  rowels, 

En  I  hollered,  "Turn  him  free!" 

Den  he  bent  en  he  twisted,  en  he  bowed  en  he 

moaned, 

En  done  der  grand  grape-vine; 
I  waked  up  a-straddle  of  er  cactus  bush, 
But  dis  song  I  had  in  mind,  — 

Oh,  dere  ain't  no  horse  what  can't  be  rode, 
Dot's  what  de  white  folks  say! 
En  dere  ain't  a  man  what  can't  be  throwed, 
OH,  MAH!  — 

I  finds  it  jest  dat  way! 

Den  I  grabs  dat  bronc  en  I  piles  aboard, 

Says  I,  "  Ole  horse,  good-bye ! 

I'se  got  yo'  number  sure  dis  time, 

I  doan  care  what  yer  try!" 

Bout  den  he  gimme  de  ole  sun-fish, 

Rail-fence,  en  do-se-do; 

En  it  broke  my  heart  fer  us  ter  part, 

But  I  had  ter  let  him  go  — 


io8  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Oh,  dere  ain't  no  horse  what  can't  be  rode, 
Dot's  what  de  white  folks  say! 
En  dere  ain't  a  man  what  can't  be  throwed, 
OH,  MAH!  — 

I  finds  it  jest  dot  way! 

NIGHT-HERDING  SONG 

This  is  part  of  an  old  song,  slightly  changed.  I  lost  the 
other  verses  when  one  of  my  ranch  buildings  burned 
down  at  Palma,  New  Mexico ,  some  years  ago. 

Oh,  slow  up,  dogies,  quit  your  roving  round, 
You  have  wandered  and  tramped  all  over  the  ground ; 
Oh,  graze  along,  dogies,  and  feed  kinda  slow, 
And  don't  forever  be  on  the  go,  — 
Oh,  move  slow,  dogies,  move  slow. 

I  have  circle-herded,  trail-herded,  night-herded, 

and  cross-herded,  too, 

But  to  keep  you  together  that's  what  I  can't  do; 
My  horse  is  leg-weary  and  I'm  awful  tired, 
But  if  you  get  away  I'm  sure  to  get  fired,  — 
Bunch  up,  little  dogies,  bunch  up. 

Oh,  say,  little  dogies,  when  are  you  goin'  to  lay  down 

And  quit  this  forever  siftin'  around? 

My  limbs  are  weary,  my  seat  is  sore ; 

Oh,  lay  down,  dogies,  like  you've  la«d  before,  — 

Lay  down,  little  dogies,  lay  down. 

Oh,  lay  still,  dogies,  since  you  have  laid  down, 
Stretch  away  out  on  the  big  open  ground; 
Snore  loud,  little  dogies,  and  drown  the  wild  sound 
That  will  all  go  away  when  the  day  rolls  round,  — 
Lay  still,  little  dogies,  lay  still. 


THE  OLD  CHISHOLM  TRAIL          109 


THE  OLD  CHISHOLM  TRAIL 

The  origin  of  this  song  is  unknown.  There  are  several 
thousand  verses  to  it  —  the  more  whiskey  the  more 
verses.  Every  puncher  knows  a  few  more  verses.  Sung 
from  the  Canadian  line  to  Mexico. 

Come  along,  boys,  and  listen  to  my  tale, 

I  '11  tell  you  of  my  trouble  on  the  old  Chisholm  Trail. 

Coma  ti  yi  youpy,  youpy  ya,  youpy  ya, 
Coma  ti  yi  youpy,  youpy  ya. 

I  started  up  the  trail  October  twenty-third, 
I  started  up  the  trail  with  the  2-U  herd. 

Oh,  a  ten-dollar  hoss  and  a  forty-dollar  saddle,  — 
And  I'm  goin'  to  punchin'  Texas  cattle. 

I  woke  up  one  mornin'  afore  daylight, 
And  afore  I  sleep  the  moon  shines  bright. 

Old  Ben  Bolt  was  a  blamed  good  boss, 

But  he'd  go  to  see  the  girls  on  a  sore-backed  hoss. 

Old  Ben  Bolt  was  a  fine  old  man, 
And  you'd  know  there  was  whiskey  wherever  he'd 
land. 

My  hoss  throwed  me  off  at  the  creek  called  Mud, 
My  hoss  throwed  me  off  round  the  2-U  herd. 

Last  time  I  saw  him  he  was  goin'  cross  the  level 
A-kickin'  up  his  heels  and  a-runnin'  like  the  devil. 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


It's  cloudy  in  the  west,  a-lookin'  like  rain, 

And  my  damned  old  slicker's  in  the  wagon  again. 

Crippled  my  boss,  I  don't  know  how, 
Ropin'  at  the  horns  of  a  2-U  cow. 

We  hit  Caldwell  and  we  hit  her  on  the  fly, 
We  bedded  down  the  cattle  on  the  bill  close  by. 

No  chaps,  no  slicker,  and  it's  pourin'  down  rain, 
And  I  swear,  by  God,  I'll  never  night-herd  again. 

Feet  in  the  stirrups  and  seat  in  the  saddle, 
I  hung  and  rattled  with  them  longhorn  cattle. 

Last  night  I  was  on  guard  and  the  leader  broke  the 

ranks, 
I  hit  my  horse  down  the  shoulders  and  I  spurred 

him  in  the  flanks. 

The  wind  commenced  to  blow  and  the  rain  began  to 

fall, 
Hit  looked,  by  grab,  like  we  was  goin'  to  lose  'em 

all. 

I  jumped  in  the  saddle  and  grabbed  holt  the  horn, 
Best  blamed  cow-puncher  ever  was  born. 

I  popped  my  foot  in  the  stirrup  and  gave  a  little  yell, 
The  tail  cattle  broke  and  the  leaders  went  to  hell. 

I  don't  give  a  damn  if  they  never  do  stop; 
I  '11  ride  as  long  as  an  eight-day  clock. 


THE  OLD  CHISHOLM  TRAIL         in 

Foot  in  the  stirrup  and  hand  on  the  horn, 
Best  damned  cowboy  ever  was  born. 

I  herded  and  hollered  and  I  done  very  well, 
Till  the  boss  said,  "Boys,  just  let  'em  go  to  helL" 

Stray  in  the  herd,  and  the  boss  said  kill  it, 
So  I  shot  him  in  the  rump  with  the  handle  of  the 
skillet. 

We  rounded  'em  up  and  put  'em  on  the  cars, 
And  that  was  the  last  of  the  old  Two  Bars. 

Oh,  it's  bacon  and  beans  'most  every  day,  — 
I  'd  as  soon  be  eatin'  prairie  hay. 

I'm  on  my  horse  and  I'm  goin'  at  a  run, 
I'm  the  quickest  shootin*  cowboy  that  ever  pulled 
a  gun. 

I  went  to  the  wagon  to  get  my  roll, 

To  come  back  to  Texas,  dad-burn  my  soul. 

I  went  to  the  boss  to  draw  my  roll, 

He  had  it  figgered  out  I  was  nine  dollars  in  the  hole. 

I'll  sell  my  outfit  just  as  soon  as  I  can, 
I  won't  punch  cattle  for  no  damned  man. 

Goin'  back  to  town  to  draw  my  money, 
Goin'  back  home  to  see  my  honey. 

With  my  knees  in  the  saddle  and  my  seat  in  the  sky, 
I  '11  quit  punchin'  cows  in  the  sweet  by  and  by. 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


Coma  ti  yi  youpy,  youpy  ya,  youpy  ya, 
Coma  ti  yi  youpy,  youpy  ya. 

THE  OLD  COWMAN 
By  Scott  Levitt,  Great  Falls,  Montana 

Got  song  from  Joel  Thomas,  but  at  the  time  I  did  not 
know  author's  name. 

When  the  sap  comes  up  through  the  cottonwood 

roots, 
And  the  first  birds  light  'mongst  the  quaking  asp 

shoots; 

When  the  last  brown  edge  at  the  sprinkling  snow 
Shows  a  crocus  bloom  and  the  cattle  low 
To  the  smell  of  spring  from  the  greening  buttes ; 
Then  my  winter  of  years  feels  a  pulsing  flood 
And  a  discontent  is  let  loose  in  my  blood; 
For  the  past  comes  up  like  a  mist-robed  sun, 
And  the  sap  of  old  longings  begins  to  run 
Till  a  thousand  wishes  burst  into  bud ! 
From  out  the  past  rides  a  care-free  crew, 
Steady  and  reckless  right  wild,  but  true  — 
Big  Sag  Bill  and  old  Milk  River  Blake, 
Musselshell  Jack  and  Pecos  Jake, 
A-riding  ahead  of  'em  two  by  two ! 
Now  the  coyotes  call  to  the  round-up  camp, 
And  the  night  herd 's  out  where  the  grass  grows 

damp; 

The  herders  are  singing  a  soothing  tune, 
For  the  cows  are  restless  beneath  the  moon, 
And  I  hear  'em  bawling  and  hear  'em  stamp ! 
And,  oh,  what  singing  from  out  the  night ! 
Not  the  voice  nor  the  tune,  but  a  something  quite 


OL'  DYNAMITE  113 

Filled  with  trust;  and  the  milling  cows 

Forget  stampeding  and  start  to  browse, 

For  the  voice  of  the  herder  has  set  them  right. 

Give  me  one  more  day  of  the  old  free  land, 

Uncursed  by  a  road  or  a  barbed-wire  strand; 

A  horse  to  ride  and  the  sight,  as  I  pass 

Of  a  thousand  horns  rising  out  of  the  grass, 

And  I'll  push  back  my  chair  and  lay  down  my 

hand! 

Let  me  ride,  old-timer,  ride  into  the  west, 
Till  I'm  lost  in  the  sunset  upon  the  crest  — 
And  with  it  draw  down  to  whatever  lies 
On  the  range  that's  hid  till  we  top  the  rise; 
Where  the  round-up  boss  has  staked  out  what's 

best. 

Old  Milk  River  Blake  and  Big  Sag  Bill, 
And  Jack  and  Jake,  at  the  top  o'  the  hill, 
Are  waiting  to  ride  like  we  used  to  ride 
At  the  round-up  camp  down  the  Great  Divide, 
Till  the  boss  of  all  herders  sings,  "  Peace,  be  still." 


OL'  DYNAMITE 
By  Phil  Le  Noir 

The  outlaw  stands  with  blindfold  eyes, 

His  feet  set  wide  apart; 
His  coal-black  hide  gleams  in  the  sun  - 

Thar's  killin'  in  his  heart. 

A  puncher  squats  upon  his  heels, 

His  saddle  at  his  side; 
He's  sizin'  up  Ol'  Dynamite, 

That  he  is  booked  to  ride. 


H4          SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

The  cowboy  rises,  lifts  his  saddle  — 

A  little  tune  he's  hummin'  — 
Walks  catlike  all  around  the  hoss  — 

"Hold  him,  boys,  I'm  comin'." 

Now  up  above  the  outlaw's  back 

He  lifts  the  load  of  leather; 
Then  care-ful-lee  he  lets  it  down, 

Like  the  droppin'  of  a  feather. 

Ol'  Dynamite  he  stands  stock-still, 

Plumb  like  a  gentled  pony. 
A  leap,  a  yell !  an'  Buck  's  all  set  — 

"  On  with  the  cer-e-mo-nee." 

The  snubbers  rip  the  blindfold  off, 

The  punchers  yip  and  yell; 
Ol'  Dynamite  gives  one  grand  snort, 

Then  starts  his  little  hell. 

He  plunges  forward  on  his  feet,  > 

His  hind  heels  in  the  air; 
Then  up  and  down  he  bucks  and  backs 

Like  a  loco  rockin'-chair. 

But  now  he  stops  —  he  spins  around  — 

He  bawls,  he  bites,  he  kicks! 
He  r'ars  straight  up  into  the  air, 

Then  down  on  two  steel  sticks. 

But  look!  "My  Gawd!"  The  crowd  screams  out, 

"He's  boltin'  for  the  stand!" 
Then  just  as  quick  he  jerks  up  short  — 

An'  thar  's  Buck  a-stickin'  grand. 


OLD  GRAZIN'  BEN  115 

Buck  leaps  to  earth,  lifts  his  hat, 
Bows  to  the  whirl  of  cheers  — 

Then  turning  slides  his  saddle  off, 
An'  quickly  disappears. 

OLD  GRAZIN'  BEN 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp 
In  seventy-six,  or  thereabouts,  when  the  Black  Hill 

made  the  strike, 
En  new  camps  sprung  up  like  mushrooms  in  the 

canons  overnight, 
'T  was  the  twenty-mule  team  that  made  the  trip 

from  the  Hills  to  Camp  Supply, 
Or  the  big  ox  team  with  their  flanks  drawn  lean 
When  the  water-holes  went  dry. 

Yer  could  see  'em  for  miles  a-comin% 

As  the  alkali  dust  would  rise, 

Each  skinner  a  handkerchief  around  his  head 

Ter  kind  'er  protect  his  eyes. 

With  a  "  Get  up !  Tobe,  blank,  blank,  you  buck, 

I'll  skin  yer  alive,  yer  dub!" 

They'd  sweat  and  strain  'gainst  collar  and  chain 

Through  'dobe,  sand,  and  mud. 

These  were  the  teams  that  kept  at  work 

The  men  who  were  diggin'  the  gold, 

Workin'  at  rocker  and  riffle 

In  those  placer  camps  of  old; 

These  were  the  men  who  made  history, 

The  men  who  supplied  the  fuel; 

Their  bones  lie  scattered  along  the  trail 

Side  by  side  with  the  ox  and  the  mule. 


n6  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Bull-whackers,  en  skinners,  en  swampers, 
The  men  who  handled  the  teams, 
Bringing  provisions  over  the  plain, 
It 's  befitting  to  me,  it  seems, 
That  their  deeds  should  be  ever  remembered 
'Mongst  the  best  of  the  frontiersmen; 
So  three  cheers  for  one  I  remember  well, 
Three  cheers  for  Old  Grazin'  Ben. 


OLD  HANK 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Driftin'  along  the  rim-rock,  old  Camp-Robber 
and  I, 

Out  on  a  scoutin'  trip,  circlin'  the  flat  lands 
dry, 

Cuttin'  the  sign  of  the  cattle,  watchin'  which  way 
they  drift, 

Pullin'  'em  out  of  the  bog-holes,  givin'  the  weak 
ones  a  lift, 

Throwin'  'em  back  on  the  Home  Range,  each  day 
in  a  different  place, 

In  slickers  en  leggins  of  leather,  through  sand- 
storms that  blister  your  face  .  .  . 

Boss  in  the  Ranch  House  rides  easy  —  his  days  of 

worry  are  gone, 
For  he  made  his  pile  in  the  old  Trail  days,  the  days 

of  the  old  longhorn. 
Yep,  I'm  only  a  worn-out  old  Puncher  —  though 

the  Boss  thinks  a  heap  of  me ! 
For  I  was  with  him  on  the  Pecos,  in  the  Raid  of 

Seventy-Three ! . . . 


OLD   NORTH  117 


Then  he  married,  en  got  him  religion,  en  tells  how 

you  must  n't  do  wrong, 
Kow  a  Brand  is  the  cowman's  protection  —  then 

he  '11  deal  you  a  Gospel  Song ! 

But  I'll  tell  you,  Old  Hank  was  the  slickest,  that 

ever  laid  line  on  a  steer, 
Or  burnt  over  a  brand  with  a  runnin'-iron,  or  worked 

on  an  old  cow's  ear ! 
'Course,  friends,  all  this  talk's  confidential,—! 

would  n't  want  Old  Hank  to  see 
That  I  have  n't  changed  my  damned  religion,  since 

the  Trail  Herd  of  Seventy-Three ! 


"OLD  NORTH" 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

When  the  Mormons  drifted  southward, 
He  was  one  of  a  ten-span  team, 
The  biggest  young  ox  them  Utah 
Bull-whackers  hed  ever  seen. 

Tawny  en  bony  en  holler, 

At  three  years  full  six  feet  tall, 

En  he  'd  break  the  chain  whenever  he  'd 

strain 
En  a  heavy  wagon  stall. 

Out  of  a  team  of  twenty, 
Which  died  in  the  White  Sands  Pass, 
He  alone  pulled  through  en  made  his  way 
To  the  springs  of  San  Nicolas. 


n8  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Twenty  Mormon  women, 
In  all,  fifty  Mormon  souls, 
Died  from  the  lack  of  water, 
Paying  the  desert  toll. 

The  ranchmen,  on  learning  the  story, 
How  every  one  had  died, 
Let  the  big  steer  have  his  freedom 
Through  the  Organ  Valley  wide. 

In  the  winter  he'd  drift  down  southward 
To  the  Franklin  Mountains  warm, 
In  the  summer  you'd  find  him  grazin' 
On  the  top  of  El  Torro  's  horn. 

No  one  ever  molests  him, 

A  monument  he  stands 

To  those  pioneers  in  search  of  homes, 

That  gallant  Mormon  band. 

This  was  the  story  as  told  me 

By  a  ranchman's  little  lass, 

Of  "  North,"  the  steer  who  roams  the  plains, 

And  of  those  in  the  White  Sands  Pass. 

OLD  PAINT 

Heard  this  sung  by  a  puncher  who  had  been  on  a  spree 
in  Pecos  City.  He  had  taken  a  job  temporarily  as  sheep- 
rustler  for  an  outfit  in  Independence  Draw,  down  the  river, 
and  was  ashamed  of  the  job.  I  worft  mention  his  name. 

Refrain: 

Good-bye,  Old  Paint,  7'm  a-leaviri1  Cheyenne, 

Good-bye,  Old  Paint,  7'm  a-leavin*  Cheyenne. 


OLD  PAINT  119 


My  foot  in  the  stirrup,  my  pony  won't  stand ; 
Good-bye,  Old  Paint,  I'm  a-leavin'  Cheyenne. 

I'm  a-leavin'  Cheyenne,  I'm  off  for  Montan'; 
Good-bye,  Old  Paint,  I'm  a-leavin'  Cheyenne. 

I'm  a-ridin'  Old  Paint,  I'm  a-leadin'  Old  Fan; 
Good-bye,  Old  Paint,  I'm  a-leavin'  Cheyenne. 

With  my  feet  in  the  stirrups,  my  bridle  in  my  hand; 
Good-bye,  Old  Paint,  I'm  a-leavin'  Cheyenne. 

Old  Paint's  a  good  pony,  he  paces  when  he  can; 
Good-bye,  little  Annie,  I'm  off  for  Cheyenne. 

Oh  hitch  up  your  horses  and  feed  'em  some  hay, 
And  seat  yourself  by  me  so  long  as  you  stay. 

My  horses  ain't  hungry,  they'll  not  eat  your  hay; 
My  wagon  is  loaded  and  rolling  away. 

My  foot  in  my  stirrup,  my  reins  in  my  hand; 
Good-morning,  young  lady,  my  horses  won't  stand. 

Good-bye,  Old  Paint,  7'm  a-leavin*  Cheyenne, 
Good-9ye,  Old  Paint,  /'m  a-leavin'  Cheyenne. 

OLD  PAINT 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Every  time  I  see  an  old  paint  horse,  I  think  of  you, 

Old  paint  horse  of  mine  that  used  to  be, 

Old  pal  o'  mine  that  was,  the  best  horse  of  all, 

because  — 
That's  why,  old  horse,  at  last  I  set  you  free! 


SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


I've  bought  'em  by  the  thousand,  I've  owned  'em 

everywhere  — 

There's  one  stands  out  among  'em  all  alone; 
Paint-marked  everywhere,  tail   a   little  short  o* 

hair, 
Old  horse,  you  never  failed  to  bring  me  home ! 

'Member  when  they  stole  you  from  Pass  City, 
En  locked  you  up  inside  the  Juarez  jail? 
Said  that  you  had  eaten  up  an  entire  crop  of  wheat, 
En  I  had  to  rustle  round  en  get  your  bail? 

En  I  got  you  cross  the  river  en  matched  you  in  a 

race, 

En  we  bet  the  last  red  dollar  we  could  scrape?  — 
En  how  you  bit  old  Rocking  Chair,  the  horse  you 

run  against, 
En  made  him  turn  his  head  en  lose  the  race? 

We  was  both  young  en  foolish  in  them  green  days 

long  ago, 

I  don't  believe  in  telling  stories  out  of  school !  — 
'Member  when  we  roped  the  planner  en  jerked  her 

out  the  door? 
Hush  up!  Old  Paint!  you're  talkin'  like  a  fool! 

Well,  old  horse,  you're  buried,  en  your  troubles, 

they  are  done, 

But  I  often  sit  en  think  of  what  we  did, 
En  recall  the  many  scrapes  we  had,  en  used  to  think 

it  fun, 
Es  we  rode  along  the  Rio  Grande  .  .  . 

Good-bye,  old  Kid ! 


OLD-TIME  COWBOY 


OLD-TIME  COWBOY 

Understand  this  was  written  by  an  old  cow-puncher  who 
claims  he  was  dragging  his  rope  along  and  some  one  else's 
calf  got  tangled  up  in  it,  and  he  landed  in  the  Huntsville 
Pen.  His  name  was  Rogers.  I  first  heard  it  sung  by  Tom 
Beasley,  at  Hueco  Tanks,  Texas. 

Come,  all  you  melancholy  folks,  wherever  you  may  be, 
I  '11  sing  you  about  the  cowboy  whose  life  is  light 

and  free; 
He  roams  about  the  prairie,  and  at  night  when  he 

lies  down, 
His  heart  is  as  gay  as  the  flowers  in  May  in  his  bed 

upon  the  ground. 

They're  a  little  bit  rough,  I  must  confess,  the  mwst 

of  them  at  least; 
But  if  you  do  not  hunt  a  quarrel,  you  can  live  with 

them  in  peace ; 
For  if  you  do,  you're  sure  to  rue  the  day  you  joined 

their  band. 
They  will  follow  you  up  and  shoot  it  out  with  you, 

just  man  to  man. 

Did  you  ever  go  to  a  cowboy  whenever  hungry  and  dry, 
Asking  for  a  dollar  and  have  him  you  deny? 
He'll  just  pull  out  his  pocket-book  and  hand  you 

a  note,  — 
They  are  the  fellows  to  help  you  whenever  you  are 

broke. 

Go  to  their  ranches  and  stay  a  while  —  they  never 

ask  a  cent; 
And  when  they  go  to  town  their  money  is  freely  spent 


122  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

They  walk  straight  up  and  take  a  drink,  paying  for 

every  one, 
And  they  never  ask  your  pardon  for  any  thing  they  've 

done. 

When  they  go  to  their  dances,  some  dance  while 

others  pat; 
They  ride  their  bucking  broncos  and  wear  their 

broad-brimmed  hats; 
With  their  California  saddles  and  their  pants  stuck 

in  their  boots, 
You  can  hear  their  spurs  a-jingling  and  perhaps 

some  of  them  shoots. 

Come,  all  soft-hearted  tenderfeet,  if  you  want  to 

have  some  fun, 
Go  live  among  the  cowboys,  they'll  show  you  how 

it's  done; 
They  '11  treat  you  like  a  prince,  my  boys,  about  them 

there's  nothing  mean; 
But  don't  try  to  give  them  too  much  advice,  for  all 

of  them  ain't  green. 


"OLD  TROUBLE"  A  L  RANCH  COLORED 
COOK 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp 
Morn's  breakin'  over  de  ole  Ranch  before  de  moon's 

gone  way, 

Dat's  a  sign  er  early  frostin'  in  de  fall; 
Two  Roosters  on  de  water-trough  'fore  de  break  er 

day,- 
Dat's  gwine  ter  make  some  trouble  fer  us  all. 


ON  THE  DODGE  123 

I  see  de  fethers  in  ole  turkey's  tail,  all  turned  en 

pointin'  west, 

En  I  see  a  crippled  dog  down  in  de  lane; 
De  sittin'  hens  'bout  twelve  o'clock  has  all  done 

quit  de  nests,  — 
Dey's  gwine  ter  be  some  trouble  soon  again. 

De  bees  is  buzzin'  awful  loud  down  in  de  gums  ter- 

day; 

Dat  ole  houn'  dog  ain't  never  moved  sense  noon; 
Believe  me,  Marster  Robert,  de  signs  es  pointin' 

right, 
Dat  der's  gwine  ter  be  some  trouble  mighty  soon. 

I  see  dat  front  door  open  when  der  warn't  no  one 

about, 

Der  smoke  blow  back  from  de  chimbley  in  de  room, 
En  I  sees  dat  rockin'-chair  commence  ter  rock 

alone  — 
Yes,  dere's  gwine  ter  be  some  trouble  mighty  soon. 

ON  THE  DODGE 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp  ( 

Well,  old  horse,  you've  brought  me  'cross  the  line, 
There's  a  sheriff's  posse  ridin'  close  behind, 

But  they'll  not  cross  the  Boca  Grande, 

The  Ru-ra-les  are  too  handy, 
And  here's  one  Gringo  that  they'll  never  find. 

Chorus 

I  don't  see  why  they  can't  leave  me  alone t 
Pd  love  to  be  back  in  my  hapjpy  home! 


124          SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Every  time  I  steal  a  horse, 
Some  one  raises  hell,  of  course, 
Seems  /'m  always  driftin'  west  from  San  Antone! 

Last  week  I  found  a  stake-pin  I  had  lost, 

Jest  an  iron  one  —  'bout  a  dollar  it  had  cost,  — 

On  it  was  tied  a  rope, 

En  it  almost  got  my  goat, 
When  I  found  the  other  end  tied  to  a  horse ! 

I  'm  as  innocent  as  any  man  can  be, 
But  I'm  afraid  the  Judge  will  not  agree, 

As  there  is  n't  any  use 

In  dishin'  up  a  poor  excuse, 
I  might  as  well  jest  saddle  up  and  flee! 


THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

They  don't  drive  the  Overland  Stage  no  more 

Like  they  used  to  when  I  was  young, 

With  four  half-broke  broncs  out  in  the  lead, 

En  two  in  the  wagon  tongue. 

With  old  Dick  Huber  up  on  the  box, 

The  messenger  by  his  side, 

They'd  drive  like  hell  when  they  heard  the  yell 

Of  Apaches  on  the  ride,  j 

The  thorough-braces  swinging  to  and  fro, 
Es  we'd  hit  the  chuck-holes  deep, 
The  clatter  of  chains  'gainst  single  trees 
On  the  down  grade  rough  and  steep; 


THE  OVERLAND  STAGE  125 

Es  we'd  take  the  hill  across  the  draw, 
You'd  hear  the  buckskin  pop  — 
And  Huber  pullin'  on  the  lines 
Es  the  team  would  near  the  top. 

What  to  do  in  the  case  of  a  hold-up 

Was  all  the  talk  one  day. 

Jim  Black  said  he'd  fork  over, 

If  let  go  on  his  way; 

Tom  Moore  'lowed  he'd  come  a-shootin* 

If  they  tried  that  game  on  him, 

For  he'd  been  held  up  once  before 

On  the  road  to  Silver  Inn. 

The  woman  passenger  we'd  picked  up, 

In  the  valley  at  early  dawn 

Had  never  moved  or  spoke  a  word 

Till  we'd  passed  through  Hollow  Horn. 

En  I  could  see  quite  quick  en  pronto 

That  she  was  bridle- wise; 

Though  made  up  of  smiles  and  dimples, 

She  had  the  Devil  in  her  eyes. 

For  her  shawl  was  worn  Spanish-wise, 

En  her  eyes  alone  shone  bright, 

En  seemed  to  notice  yer  every  move 

Es  they'd  shift  from  left  to  right. 

En  her  little  slim  girlish  figure 

Seemed  pitifully  alone, 

En  made  one  feel  you  should  always  protect 

The  young  away  from  home. 


126  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

'Bout  then  the  coach  give  an  awful  lurch, 

Es  we  struck  the  river  sand, 

When  I  come  to,  there  stood  the  girl 

With  a  Winchester  in  her  hand; 

"You  gents  pile  out,  yer  hands  hold  high!" 

Was  the  order  that  she  gave, 

"Just  one  false  play  er  a  crooked  move, 

En  you'll  fill  an  early  gravel" 

Well,  she  cleaned  us  out  to  the  last  red  cent, 

En  the  messenger,  too,  er  course, 

En  she  made  old  Huber  cut  loose  the  team 

En  saddle  her  up  a  horse. 

Es  she  rode  away,  we  heard  her  say, 

In  a  voice  with  a  musical  note, 

"Boys,  times  have  changed  on  the  open  range, 

Since  the  women  have  got  the  vote!" 


THE  PECOS  RIVER  QUEEN 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Written  on  Lower  Pecos,  New  Mexico,  June,  1901,  after 
Roy  Bean  had  told  me  of  this  fact  concerning  Patty. 
Copyrighted  in  my  book  published  in  1908. 

Where  the  Pecos  River  winds  and  turns  in  its  jour- 
ney to  the  sea, 

From  its  white  walls  of  sand  and  rock  striving  ever 
to  be  free, 

Near  the  highest  railroad  bridge  that  all  these  mod- 
ern times  have  seen 

Dwells  fair  young  Patty  Moorhead,  the  Pecos  River 
Queen. 


PECOS  TOM  127 


She's  known  by  all  the  cowboys  on  the  Pecos  River 
wide; 

They  know  full  well  that  she  can  shoot,  that  she  can 
rope  and  ride ; 

She  goes  to  every  round-up,  every  cow-work  with- 
out fail, 

Looking  out  for  all  her  cattle  branded  "walking 
hog  on  rail." 

She  made  her  start  in  cattle,  yes,  made  it  with  her 

rope ; 
Can  tie  down  e'ry  maverick  'fore  it  can  strike  a 

lope; 
She  can  rope  and  tie  and  brand  it  as  quick  as  any 

man; 
She's  voted  by  all  cowboys  an  Ai  top  cow-hand. 

Across  the  Comstock  railroad  bridge,  the  highest  in 

the  West, 
Patty  rode  her  horse  one  day  a  lover's  heart  to 

test; 
For  he  told  her  he  would  gladly  risk  all  dangers 

for  her  sake, 
But  the  puncher  wouldn't  follow,  so  she's  still 

without  a  mate. 

PECOS  TOM 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp 
Where  the  old  Fort  Sumner  Barracks  look  down  on 

the  Pecos  wide, 
In  a  dugout  near  the  crossin'  we  was  a-sittin'  side 

by  side; 


128  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Old  Pecos  Tom,  the  cowman,  en  your  humble 

servant,  me, 
Was  a-swappin'  cow-camp  stories  in  the  fall  of 

eighty- three. 
When  my  gaze  it  sort  er  fastened  on  a  gun  slung  on 

his  side, 
Worth  some  fifteen  thousand  dollars  —  say,  maybe 

you  think  I've  lied? 
But  the  handle  was  plumb  covered  with  diamonds 

of  all  size, 
Efl  she  'd  glitter,  en  she  'd  glisten,  es  she  hung  down 

from  his  side. 

You  could  have  bought  his  whole  darned  outfit  fer 

a  yearlin'  steer  er  two, 
Hat,  boots,  overalls,  en  chaps  —  there  was  nothin' 

that  was  new; 
Lived  down  in  a  dugout,  on  jest  sour-dough  bread 

en  beef, 
En  was  just  about  as  happy  es  a  Choctaw  Indian  chief. 

Figured  he  had  ten  thousand  cattle,  en  the  whole 
wide  range  was  his, 

En  if  he  wanted  a  good  six-shooter  it  was  no  one 
else's  biz; 

So  when  he  shipped  with  er  train  er  steers  to  Chi- 
cago late  one  fall, 

En  was  strollin'  on  up  State  Street,  he  thought  he'd 
make  a  call 

On   the  biggest  jewelry  outfit  that  kept  gaudy 

things  to  wear, 
But  when  he  asked  fer  a  six-shooter  the  Jew  clerk 

began  to  stare ; 


A  PRAIRIE  SONG  129 

"  Yes,  we  've  got  one  that  was  ordered  for  a  bloomin' 

English  lord, 
But  I  reckon  from  your  outfit  it's  a  gun  you  can't 

afford. 

"  It  will  cost  you  fifteen  thousand — "  Says  Old  Tom, 
"  Just  give  her  here, 

You  counter-jumpin'  gorriff!" — en  he  grabbed 
him  by  the  ear, 

En  he  peeled  off  fifteen  thousand  to  the  Hebrew 
standin'  there, 

Sayin',  "  Don't  judge  Western  cowmen  by  the  out- 
fits that  they  wear  I" 


A  PRAIRIE  SONG 

/  heard  this  sung  by  a  cow-girl  at  Cheyenne  Round-up  — 
a  Miss  Windsor. 

Oh,  music  springs  under  the  galloping  hoofs, 

Out  on  the  plains; 

Where  mile  after  mile  drops  behind  with  a  smile, 
And  to-morrow  seems  always  to  tempt  and  be- 
guile, — 

Out  on  the  plains. 

Oh,  where  are  the  traces  of  yesterday's  ride? 

There  to  the  north; 
Where  alfalfa  and   sage    sigh    themselves    into 

sleep, 

Where  the  buttes  loom  up  suddenly,  startling  and 
steep, — 

There  to  the  north. 


130  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Oh,  rest  not  my  pony,  there's  youth  in  my  heart, 

Out  on  the  plains; 

And  the  wind  sings  a  wild  song  to  rob  me  of  care, 
And  there's  room  here  to  live  and  to  love  and  to 
dare,  — 

Out  on  the  plains. 

THE  PROSPECTOR 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Written  at  the  Slash  S  W  Rancht  on  the  door  of  the  old 
ranch  house,  in  the  San  Andreas  Mountains. 

Twelve  years  have  I  lived  in  this  desolate  place, 
Far  from  all  habitation  —  not  even  a  face 
Have  I  seen,  save  Apaches,  those  unwelcome  guests, 
Pass  me  by  as  I  work  with  my  pick  in  the  breast. 

Am  I  one  of  the  millions  whose  brain-string  has 
snapped, 

Who  sees  visions  of  gold  in  those  canyons  un- 
mapped, 

Unexplored,  unprospected,  that  lay  just  ahead, 

Near  the  Arc  of  the  Bow  where  so  many  lie  dead? 

Like  all  miners  I've  visions,  which  may  some  day 

come  true, 

Of  where  I  would  go  and  what  I  would  do  — 
If  I'd  but  once  find  the  vein  which  carries  the  ore, 
My  days  of  hard  work  would  forever  be  o'er. 

There 's  a  frenzy  of  fury  that  boils  in  one's  veins  — 
Will  it  pay  for  the  hardships,  will  it  pay  for  my  pains? 
'T  is  a  distorted  finger  that  beckons,  it  seems, 
To  the  land  of  illusions,  the  place  of  my  dreams. 


PUNCHI N'  DOUGH  131 

PUNCHIN'  DOUGH 
By  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 

Come,  all  you  young  waddies,  I'll  sing  you  a  song: 
Stand  back  from  the  wagon  —  stay  where  you  be- 
long; 

I've  heard  you  observin'  I'm  fussy  and  slow, 
While  you're  punchin'  cattle  and  I'm  punchin' 
dough. 

Now  I  reckon  your  stomach  would  grow  to  your  back, 
If  it  wa'n't  for  the  cook  that  keeps  fillin.'  the  slack: 
With  the  beans  in  the  box  and  the  pork  in  the  tub, 
I'm  a  wonderin',  now,  who  would  fill   you  with 
grub? 

You  think  you're  right  handy  with  gun  and  with 

rope, 

But  I  've  noticed  you  're  bashful  when  usin'  the  soap : 
When  you're  rollin'  your  Bull  for  your  brown 

cigarette, 
I  been  rollin'  dough  for  the  biscuits  you  et. 

When  you're  cuttin'  stock,  then  I'm  cuttin'  steak: 
When  you're  wranglin'  horses,  I'm  wranglin' cake : 
When  you're  hazin'  the  dogies  and  battin'  your 

eyes, 
I'm  hazin'  dried  apples  that  aim  to  be  pies. 

You  brag  about  shootin'  up  windows  and  lights, 
But  try  shooting  biscuits  for  twelve  appetites: 
When  you  crawl  from  your  roll  and  the  ground  it  is 

froze, 
Then  who  biles  the  coffee  that  thaws  out  your  nose? 


132  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

In  the  old  days  the  punchers  took  just  what  they 

got: 

It  was  sowbelly,  beans,  and  the  old  coffee-pot; 
But  now  you  come  howlin'  for  pie  and  for  cake, 
Then  you  cuss  at  the  cook  for  a  good  bellyache. 

You  say  that  I'm  old,  with  my  feet  on  the  skids; 
Well,  I'm  tellin'  you  now  that  you're  nothin'  but 

kids: 
If  you  reckon  your  mounts  are  some  snaky  and 

raw, 
Just  try  ridin'  herd  on  a  stove  that  won't  draw. 

When  you  look  at  my  apron,  you're  readin'  my 

brand, 

Four  X,  which  is  sign  for  the  best  in  the  land ; 
On  bottle  or  sack  it  sure  stands  for  good  luck, 
So  —  line  up,  you  waddies,  and  wrangle  your  chuck. 

No  use  of  your  snortin'  and  fightin'  your  head: 
If  you  like  it  with  chile,  just  eat  what  I  said; 
For  I  aim  to  be  boss  of  this  end  of  the  show, 
While  you're  punchin'  cattle  and   I'm   punchin' 
dough. 


THE  RAILROAD  CORRAL 

Author  unknown.  Mailed  to  ms  by  a  friend  at  Colorado 
City,  Texas. 

Oh,  we're  up  in  the  morning  ere  breaking  of  the 

day, 
The  chuck-wagon's  busy,  the  flapjacks  in  play; 


THE  RAILROAD  CORRAL  133 

The  herd  is  astir  o'er  hillside  and  vale, 

With  the  night  riders  rounding  them  into  the  trail. 

Oh,  come  take  up   your  cinches,  come  shake  out 

your  reins; 
Come  wake  your  old  bronco  and  break  for  the 

plains; 

Come  roust  out  your  steers  from  the  long  chaparral, 
For  the  outfit  is  off  to  the  railroad  corral. 

The  sun  circles  upward;  the  steers  as  they  plod 
Are  pounding  to  powder  the  hot  prairie  sod; 
And  it  seems,  as  the  dust  makes  you  dizzy  and  sick, 
That  we'll  never  reach  noon  and  the  cool  shady 

creek. 

But  tie  up  your  kerchief  and  ply  up  your  nag; 
Come  dry  up  your  grumbles  and  try  not  to  lag; 
Come  with  your  steers  from  the  long  chaparral, 
For  we're  far  on  the  road  to  the  railroad  corral. 

The  afternoon  shadows  are  starting  to  lean, 
When  the  chuck-wagon  sticks  in  the  marshy  ravine ; 
The  herd  scatters  farther  than  vision  can  look, 
For  you  can  bet  all  true  punchers  will  help  out  the 

cook. 

Come  shake  out  your  rawhide  and  snake  it  up  fair; 
Come  break  your  old  bronco  to  take  in  his  share; 
Come  from  your  steers  in  the  long  chaparral, 
For  't  is  all  in  the  drive  to  the  railroad  corral. 

But  the  longest  of  days  must  reach  evening  at  last, 
The  hills  all  climbed,  the  creeks  all  past; 
The  tired  herd  droops  in  the  yellowing  light; 
Let  them  loaf  if  they  will,  for  the  railroad's  in  sight. 


134  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

So  flap  up  your  holster  and  snap  up  your  belt, 
And  strap  up  your  saddle  whose  lap  you  have  felt; 
Good-bye  to  the  steers  from  long  chaparral, 
For  there's  a  town  that's  a  trunk  by  the  railroad 
corral. 

THE  RAMBLING  COWBOY 

Author  supposed  to  have  been  K.  Tolliver.  I  first  heard 
it  at  Van  Horn,  Texas. 

There  was  a  rich  old  rancher  who  lived  in  the  coun- 
try by; 

He  had  a  lovely  daughter  on  whom  I  cast  my  eye ; 

She  was  pretty,  tall,  and  handsome,  both  neat  and 
very  fair; 

There's  no  other  girl  in  the  country  with  her  I 
could  compare. 

I  asked  her  if  she  would  be  willing  for  me  to  cross 

the  plains; 
She  said  she  would  be  truthful  until  I  returned 

again; 
She  said  she  would  be  faithful  until  death  did  prove 

unkind, 
So  we  kissed,  shook  hands,  and  parted,  and  I  left 

my  girl  behind. 

I  left  the  state  of  Texas,  for  Arizona  I  was  bound ; 
I  landed  in  Tombstone  City,  I  viewed  the  place  all 

round. 
Money  and  work  were  plentiful,  and  the  cowboys 

they  were  kind, 
But  the  only  thought  of  my  heart  was  the  girl  I  left 

behind. 


SAM  BASS  135 


One  day,  as  I  was  riding  across  the  public  square, 
The  mail-coach  came  in  and  I  met  the  driver  there ; 
He  handed  me  a  letter  which  gave  me  to  understand 
That  the  girl  I  left  in  Texas  had  married  another 
man. 

I  turned  myself  all  roundabout,  not  knowing  what 

to  do, 
But  I  read  on  down  some  further  and  it  proved  the 

words  were  true. 
Hard  work  I  have  laid  over,  it's  gambling  I  have 

designed. 
I'll  ramble  this  wide  world  over  for  the  girl  I  left 

behind. 

Come,  all  you  reckless  and  rambling  boys,  who 

have  listened  to  this  song, 
If  it  has  n't  done  you  any  good,  it  has  n't  done  you 

any  wrong; 
But  when  you  court  a  pretty  girl,  just  marry  her 

while  you  can, 
For  if  you  go  across  the  plains  she'll  marry  another 

man. 

SAM  BASS 
By  John  Denton,  Gainsville,  Texas,  1879 

This  is  the  most  authentic  report  on  authorship  I  have  re- 
ceived. I  first  heard  the  song  sung  in  Sidney,  Nebraska, 
at  a  dance  hall,  in  1888. 

Sam  Bass  was  born  in  Indiana,  it  was  his  native 

home, 
And  at  the  age  of  seventeen  young  Sam  began  to 

roam. 


136  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Sam  first  came  out  to  Texas  a  cowboy  for  to  be,  — 
A  kinder-hearted  fellow  you  seldom  ever  see. 

Sam  used  to  deal  in  race-stock,  one  called  the 

Dentonmare; 
He  matched  her  in  scrub  races  and  took  her  to  the 

fair. 
Sam  used  to  coin  the  money,  and  spent  it  just  as 

free; 
He  always  drank  good  whiskey  wherever  he  might 

be. 

Sam  left  the  Collins  ranch,  in  the  merry  month  of 

May, 
With  a  herd  of  Texas  cattle  the  Black  Hills  for  to 

see; 

Sold  out  in  Custer  City,  and  then  got  on  a  spree,  — 
A  harder  set  of  cowboys  you  seldom  ever  see. 

On  their  way  back  to  Texas  they  robbed  the  U.P. 

train, 

And  then  split  up  in  couples  and  started  out  again ; 
Joe  Collins  and  his  partner  were  overtaken  soon, 
With  all  their  hard-earned  money  they  had  to  meet 

their  doom. 

Sam  made  it  back  to  Texas,  all  right  up  with  care ; 
Rode  into  town  of  Denton  with  all  his  friends  to 

share. 
Sam's  life  was  short  in  Texas;  three  robberies  did 

he  do; 
He  robbed  all  the  passenger  mail  and  express  cars 

too. 


SAM  BASS  137 


Sam  had  four  companions  —  four  bold  and  daring 

lads  — 
They  were  Richardson,  Jackson,  Joe  Collins,  and 

Old  Dad; 
Four  more  bold  and  daring  cowboys  the  Rangers 

never  knew, 
They  whipped  the  Texas  Rangers  and  ran  the  boys 

in  blue. 

Sam  and  another  companion,  called  Arkansas  for 

short, 
Was  shot  by  a  Texas  Ranger  by  the  name  of 

Thomas  Floyd; 
Oh,  Tom  is  a  big  six-footer  and  thinks  he's  mighty 

fly, 

But  I  can  tell  you  his  racket,  —  he's  a  deadbeat  on 
the  sly. 

Jim  Murphy  was  arrested  and  then  released  on  bail; 
He  jumped  his  bond  at  Tyler  and  then  took  the 

train  for  Terrell; 
But  Mayor  Jones  had  posted  Jim  and  that  was  all  a 

stall, 
'T  was  only  a  plan  to  capture  Sam  before  the  coming 

fall. 

Sam  met  his  fate  at  Round  Rock,  July  the  twenty- 

first; 
They  pierced  poor  Sam  with  rifle  balls  and  emptied 

out  his  purse. 

Poor  Sam  he  is  a  corpse  and  six  foot  under  clay, 
And  Jackson  in  the  bushes  trying  to  get  away. 


138  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Jim  had  borrowed  Sam's  good  gold  and  did  n't  want 

to  pay, 

The  only  shot  he  saw  was  to  give  poor  Sam  away. 
He  sold  out  Sam  and  Barnes  and  left  their  friends 

to  mourn,  — 
Oh,  what  a  scorching  Jim  will  get  when  Gabriel 

blows  his  horn. 

And  so  he  sold  out  Sam  and  Barnes  and  left  their 

friends  to  mourn,  — 
Oh,  what  a  scorching  Jim  will  get  when  Gabriel 

blows  his  horn. 
Perhaps  he 's  got  to  heaven,  there's  none  of  us  can 

say, 
But  if  I  am  right  in  my  surmise  he 's  gone  the  other 

way. 

SKY-HIGH 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Tne  scream  of  the  outlaw  split  the  air 
As  we  tied  him  hard  and  fast 
To  the  snubbing-post  in  the  horse  corral, 
For  his  turn  had  come  at  last 

To  learn  the  feel  of  spurs  of  steel 
As  they  graze  along  each  side,  — 
En  Bugger  pulled  up  his  chaps  a  hole, 
For  he  was  the  next  to  ride. 

We  knew  he'd  strike,  we  knew  he'd  bite, 
We  knew  he'd  kick  and  rear, 
So  we  grabbed  his  ears  en  held  his  head, 
Till  Bugger  got  up  near. 


SKY-HIGH  139 


He  stepped  into  the  saddle 

En  hollered  —  "  Let  'im  go !" 

We  jerked  the  blinder  from  his  eyes, 

Then  stopped  to  watch  the  show. 

You  've  all  heard  of  pitchin'  horses 
From  Steamboat  down  the  line, 
Old  Barometer,  en  Step  Fast, 
En  a  mare  they  called  Divine. 

Old  Prickly  Pear,  en  Pizen, 
Lop  Ears,  en  Stingaree,  — 
They  all  wuz  Shetland  ponies 
'Side  this  horse  from  Santa  Fe. 

We  asked  Red  in  tones  solicitous 
If  he  had  made  his  will, 
Had  he  any  girl  in  Texas 
Who  really  loved  him  still? 

Was  there  any  parting  message 
That  he  would  like  to  send, 
To  some  one  in  his  old,  old  home 
Who  still  might  be  his  friend? 

Who  was  his  pet  undertaker? 
What  parson  should  we  get? 
Would  he  have  flowers  on  his  coffin? 
I  can  hear  old  Bugger  yet; 

"  Mosey,  you  four-flush  punchers, 
Don't  weep  no  tears  for  me, 
I'm  a  ridin'  kid  from  Texas, 
From  the  old  3  Bar  C ! 


140  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

"  Go  up,  you  old  Cloud-Getter, 
I  can  see  the  Pearly  Gate, 
We're  a-doin'  the  Grand  Ascension, 
Loopin'  the  loops,  as  sure  as  fate; 

*  If  I'm  a  judge  of  horses, 
You're  not  one,  two,  three, 
With  the  gentle  stock  we  used  to  ride 
Attheold3-C!» 

He  whipped  old  Sky-High  till  he  quit, 
He  roweled  him  up  and  down; 
Old  Sky-High  had  a  plenty, 
He  could  hardly  turn  around. 

En  we  heard  old  Bugger  hummin', 
Es  he  turned  the  outlaw  free, 
"I'm  a  ridin'  kid  from  Texas, 
From  the  old  3-Ct" 


A  SONG  OF  THE  RANGE 

By  James  Barton  Adams 
Sent  me  by  Miss  Nell  Benson 

The  bawl  of  a  steer  to  a  cowboy's  ear  is  music  of 

sweetest  strain, 
And  the  yelling  notes  of  the  gray  coyotes  to  him  are 

a  glad  refrain; 
The  rapid  beat  of  his  bronco's  feet  on  the  sod  as  he 

speeds  along 
Keeps  'livening  time  to  the  ringing  rhyme  of  his 

rollicking  cowboy  song. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  RANGE  141 

His  eyes  are  bright  and  his  heart  is  light  as  the 

smoke  of  his  cigarette, 
There's  never  a  care  for  his  soul  to  bear,  no 

troubles  to  make  him  fret; 
For  a  kingly  crown  in  the  noisy  town  his  saddle  he 

would  not  change  — 
No  life  so  free  as  the  life  we  see  'way  out  on  the 

cattle  range. 

Hi-lo!  Hi-lay! 

To  the  range  away, 
On  the  deck  of  a  bronc  of  steel, 

With  a  careless  flirt 

Of  a  rawhide  quirt 
And  a  dig  of  the  roweled  heel. 

The  winds  may  howl, 

And  the  thunder  growl, 
Or  the  breeze  may  softly  moan; 
\    The  rider's  life 

Is  the  life  for  me, 
The  saddle  a  kingly  throne. 

At  the  long  day's  close  he  his  bronco  throws  with 

the  bunch  in  the  hoss  corral, 
And  a  light  he  spies  in  the  bright  blue  eyes  of  his 

welcoming  rancher  gal; 
'  T  is  a  light  that  tells  of  the  love  that  dwells  in  the 

soul  of  his  little  dear, 
And  a  kiss  he  slips  to  her  waiting  lips  when  no  one 

is  watching  near. 
His  glad  thoughts  stray  to  the  coming  day  when 

away  to  the  town  they'll  ride, 
And  the  nuptial  brand  by  the  parson's  hand  will  be 

placed  on  his  bonnie  bride, 


142  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

And  they  '11  gallop  back  to  the  old  home  shack  in  the 

life  that  is  new  and  strange  — 
The  rider  bold  and  the  girl  of  gold,  the  queen  of  the 

cattle  range. 

Hi-lot  Hi-lay! 

For  the  work  is  play 
When  love's  in  the  cowboy's  eyes, 

When  his  heart  is  light 

As  the  clouds  of  white 
That  swim  in  the  summer  skies; 

And  his  jolly  song 

Speeds  the  hours  along 
As  he  thinks  of  the  little  gal 

With  the  golden  hair 

WhoUl  be  waiting  there 
At  the  gate  of  the  home  corral. 

SPECKLES 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

This  song  was  written  in  1906  at  Palma,  New  Mexico, 
my  old  ranch.  I  gave  the  contract  to  print  my  first  little 
book,  entitled  "Songs  of  the  Cowboys,"  to  Mr.  P.  A. 
Speckman,  News  Print  Shop,  Estancia,  New  Mexico,  who 
printed  it  in  1908. 

He  was  little  en  peaked  en  thin,  en  narry  a  no- 
account  horse  — 

Least  that's  the  way  you'd  describe  him  in  case 
that  the  beast  had  been  lost  — 

But  for  single  and  double  cussedness  en  double 
center-fired  sin 

The  horse  never  come  out  o'  Texas  that  was  half- 
way knee-high  to  him. 


SPECKLES  143 

The  first  time  that  ever  I  saw  him  was  nineteen 

year  ago  last  spring. 
'T  was  the  year  we  had  grasshoppers,  that  come  en 

et  up  everything, 
That  a  feller  rode  up  here  one  evening  en  wanted  to 

pen  overnight 
A  small  bunch  of  horses,  he  said,  en  I  told  him  I 

guessed  't  was  all  right. 

Well,  the  feller  was  busted,  the  horses  was  thin, 
en  the  grass  around  here  kind  o'  good, 

En  he  said  if  I'd  let  him  hold  here  a  few  days,  he'd 
settle  with  me  when  he  could. 

So  I  told  him  all  right,  turn  them  loose  down  the 
draw,  that  the  latchstring  was  always  un- 
tied; 

He  was  welcome  to  stop  a  few  days  if  he  liked  en 
rest  from  his  long,  weary  ride. 

Well,  the  cuss  stay'd  around  for  two  or  three  weeks 

till  at  last  he  decided  to  go, 
And  that  horse  over  yonder  being  too  poor  to  move 

he  gimme  —  the  cuss  had  no  dough; 
Well,  at  first  the  darn  brute  was  as  wild  as  a  deer, 

en  would  snort  when  he  came  to  the  branch, 
En  it  took  two  cow-punchers,  on  good  horses,  too, 

to  handle  him  here  at  the  ranch. 

Well,  winter  come  on  and  the  range  it  got  hard,  anA 
my  mustang  commenced  to  get  thin, 

So  I  fed  him  along  and  rode  him  around  some  and 
found  out  old  Speckles  was  game; 

For  that  was  what  the  other  cuss  called  him,  just 
Speckles,  no  more  or  no  less; 


144  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

His  color,  could  n't  describe  it,  something  like  a 
paint-shop  in  distress. 

Them  was  Indian  times,  young  feller,  that  I'm 

a-telling  about, 
And  oft's  the  time  I've  seen  the  red  men  fight  and 

put  the  boys  in  blue  to  rout. 
A  good  horse  in  them  days,  young  feller,  would 

often  save  your  life  — 
One  that  in  any  race  could  hold  the  pace  when  the 

red-skin  bands  were  rife. 

I  was  a-settin'  one  night  at  sunset,  jest  inside  that 

hall, 
En  Mollie  hed  gone  to  the  milk-pen  as  she  heard 

the  milk  cows  bawl, 
When  out  o'  brush  en  thicket,  ridin'  towards  me 

out  o'  the  west, 
Comes  Antelope  John,  his  horse  on  the  run,  en 

ridin'  like  one  possessed. 

"Apaches  are  out!"  he  shouted;  "for  God's  sake, 

hurry  and  go ! 
They're  close  behind,  comin'  like  the  wind;  catch 

your  horse  and  come  on,  Joe ! " 
Old  Speckles  was  saddled,  I  grabbed  my  gun, 

picked  Mollie  up  as  I  passed; 
With  the  grit  of  her  kind  she  hung  on  behind  and 

never  a  question  asked. 

Down  through  canons  deep,  over  mesas  steep,  Old 

Speckles  never  failed; 
In  his  heart  of  steel  he  seemed  to  feel  the  red-skins 

on  our  trail; 


TEN  THOUSAND  TEXAS  RANGERS    145 

On,  ever  onward,  towards  Fort  Craig  he  sped  the 
whole  night  through; 

Though  handicapped  by  a  double  load,  he  out- 
stripped the  red-skins  too. 

Never  will  I  forget  that  ride,  en  how  at  first  day- 
break 

We  galloped  out  of  the  chaparral  en  entered  the  old 
fort  gate. 

TEN  THOUSAND  TEXAS  RANGERS 
By  Alice  Corbin 

Written  in  March,  1917,  at  the  time  when  Germany  pro- 
posed to  Mexico  that  they  retake  the  "lost  provinces  "  oj 
Texas,  New  Mexico,  Arizona,  and  California. 

Ten  thousand  Texas  Rangers  are  laughin'  fit  to 

kill 
At  the  joke  of  the  German  Kaiser,  an'  his  fierce, 

imperious  will  — 
For  he  sez,  sez  he,  to  the  Mexican  boob,  hidin' 

behind  his  beard, 
"  Old  Uncle  Sam  is  an  easy  mark,  or  so  I've  always 

heerd  — 

"  Go  up  and  take  his  cattle,  and  take  a  state  or 

two,  — 
Texas,  New  Mexico,  Arizone  —  don't  stop  before 

you're  through; 
For  we  shall  make  war  together,  and  together  make 

peace,"  he  said, 
Now  ain't  it  a  joke  —  so  easy-like  —  as  easy  as 

makin'  bread  I 


146  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Now  if  he  had  wanted  a  gun-man,  he  could  n't 

have  chose  a  worse, 
For  Pancho  Villa  has  got  more  knack  in  fixin'  a  man 

for  the  hearse, 
And  if  he  had  thought  that  a  gun-man  could  swipe 

that  piece  of  earth, 
He  should  'a'  remembered  we  got  the  trick  of 

handlin'  a  gun  from  birth  I 

Ten  thousand  Texas  Rangers  are  shakin'  with 
wicked  glee 

At  the  joke  of  the  German  Kaiser  in  his  fierce  per- 
plexity; 

They  are  bustin'  their  buttins  with  laughin',  they 
are  laughin'  fit  to  kill  — 

"By  Gawd,"  sez  they,  "  but  that's  one  on  him,  by 
Gawd,  but  that's  one  on  Bill!" 


THE  TENDERFOOT 
By  Yank  Hitson,  Denver,  Colorado,  1889 

I  got  the  song  from  old  Battle  Axe,  whom  lots  of  old 
punchers  remember,  at  Phoznix,  Arizona,  1899. 

I  thought  one  spring,  just  for  fun, 
I'd  see  how  cow-punching  was  done; 
And  when  the  round-ups  had  begun 
I  tackled  the  cattle-king. 
Says  he,  "  My  foreman  is  in  town, 
He's  at  the  plaza,  his  name  is  Brown; 
If  you'll  see  him  he'll  take  you  down." 
Says  I,  "That's  just  the  thing." 


THE  TENDERFOOT  147 

We  started  for  the  ranch  next  day; 
Brown  augured  me  most  all  the  way. 
He  said  that  cow-punching  was  child  play, 
That  it  was  no  work  at  all,  — 
That  all  you  had  to  do  was  ride, 
'T  was  only  drifting  with  the  tide; 
Oh,  how  that  old  cow-puncher  lied  — 
He  certainly  had  his  gall. 

He  pat  me  in  charge  of  a  cavyard, 

And  told  me  not  to  work  too  hard, 

That  all  I  had  to  do  was  guard 

The  horses  from  getting  away; 

I  had  one  hundred  and  sixty  head, 

I  sometimes  wished  that  I  was  dead; 

When  one  got  away,  Brown's  head  turned  red, 

And  there  was  hell  to  pay. 

Straight  to  the  bushes  they  would  take, 
As  if  they  were  running  for  a  stake,  — 
I've  often  wished  their  neek  they  'd  break, 
But  they  would  never  fall. 
Sometimes  I  could  not  head  them  at  all, 
Sometimes  my  horse  would  catch  a  fall, 
And  I'd  shoot  on  like  a  cannon  ball 
Till  the  earth  came  in  my  way. 

They  saddled  me  up  an  old  gray  hack 

With  two  set-fasts  on  his  back; 

They  padded  him  down  with  a  gunny  sack 

And  used  my  bedding  all. 

When  I  got  on  he  quit  the  ground, 

Went  up  in  the  air  and  turned  around, 

And  I  came  down  and  hit  the  ground,  — 

It  was  an  awful  fall. 


148  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

They  picked  me  up  and  carried  me  in 

And  rubbed  me  down  with  an  old  stake-pin. 

"  That's  the  way  they  all  begin; 

You're  doing  well,"  says  Brown. 

**  And  in  the  morning,  if  you  don't  die, 

I'll  give  you  another  horse  to  try." 

"  Oh,  say,  can't  I  walk?"  says  I. 

Says  he,  "  Yes  —  back  to  town." 

I've  traveled  up  and  I've  traveled  down, 
I've  traveled  this  country  round  and  round, 
I've  lived  in  city  and  I've  lived  in  town, 
But  I've  got  this  much  to  say: 
Before  you  try  cow-punching,  kiss  your  wife, 
Take  a  heavy  insurance  on  your  life, 
Then  cut  your  throat  with  a  barlow  knife,  — 
For  it 's  easier  done  that  way. 


THE  TEXAS  COWBOY 

An  old  song,  credited  to  Al  Pease  of  Round  Rock,  Texas. 
I  first  heard  it  sung  by  J.  Latham  at  La  Luz,  New  Mexico. 

Oh,  I  am  a  Texas  cowboy, 
Far  away  from  home; 
If  ever  I  get  back  to  Texas 
I  never  more  will  roam. 


Montana  is  too  cold  for  me 
And  the  winters  are  too  long; 
Before  the  round-ups  do  begin, 
Our  money  is  all  gone. 


THE  TEXAS  COWBOY  149 

Take  this  old  hen-skin  bedding, 
Too  thin  to  keep  me  warm; 
I  nearly  freeze  to  death,  my  boys, 
Whenever  there 's  a  storm. 

And  take  this  old  "tarpoleon" 
Too  thin  to  shield  my  frame  — • 
I  got  it  down  in  New  Mexico 
A-dealin'  a  Monte  game. 

Now  to  win  these  fancy  leggins 
I'll  have  enough  to  do; 
They  cost  me  twenty  dollars 
The  day  that  they  were  new. 

I  have  an  outfit  on  the  Musselshell, 
But  that  I'll  never  see, 
Unless  I  get  sent  to  represent 
The  circle  or  D.T. 

I've  worked  up  in  Nebraska 
Where  the  grass  grows  ten  feet  high, 
And  the  cattle  are  such  rustlers 
That  they  seldom  ever  die; 

I  've  worked  up  in  the  sand  hills, 
And  down  upon  the  Platte, 
Where  the  cowboys  are  good  fellows 
And  the  cattle  always  fat; 

I've  traveled  lots  of  country,  — 
Nebraska's  hills  of  sand, 
Down  through  the  Indian  Nation, 
And  up  the  Rio  Grande;  — 


ISO  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

But  the  Bad  lands  of  Montana 
Are  the  worst  I  've  ever  seen, 
The  cowboys  are  all  tenderfeet, 
And  the  dogies  are  all  lean. 

If  you  want  to  see  some  bad  lands, 
Go  over  on  the  Dry; 
You  will  bog  down  in  the  coulees 
Where  the  mountains  reach  the  sky. 

A  tenderfoot  to  lead  you 
Who  never  knows  the  way; 
You  are  playing  in  the  best  of  luck 
If  you  eat  more  than  once  a  day. 

Your  grub  is  bread  and  bacon, 
And  coffee  black  as  ink; 
The  water  so  full  of  alkali 
It  is  hardly  fit  to  drink. 

They  will  wake  you  in  the  morning, 
Before  the  break  of  day, 
And  send  you  on  a  circle 
A  hundred  miles  away. 

All  along  the  Yellowstone 
'T  is  cold  the  year  around; 
You  will  surely  get  consumption 
By  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

Work  in  Montana 
Is  six  months  in  the  year;1 
,      When  all  your  bills  are  settled, 
There  is  nothing  left  for  beer. 


THANKSGIVING  ON  THE  RANCH     151 

Work  down  in  Texas 

Is  all  the  year  around ; 

You  will  never  get  consumption 

By  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

Come;,  all  you  Texas  cowboys, 
And  warning  take  from  me, 
And  do  not  go  to  Montana 
To  spend  your  money  free. 

But  stay  at  home  in  Texas, 
Where  work  lasts  the  year  around; 
And  you  will  never  catch  consumption 
By  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

THANKSGIVING  ON  THE  RANCH 
By  James  Barton  Adams,  Denver 

We  was  settin'  'round  the  ranch  house  on  the  last 

Thanksgivin'  Day, 
Tellin'  yarns  an'  swappin*  fables  fer  to  pass  the 

time  away; 

Fer  the  owner  was  religious  an*  had  made  it  mani- 
fest 
That  there  would  n't  be  no  ridin'  on  a  day  o'  joyful 

rest; 
An'  we  got  in  a  discussion  an'  a  heap  o'  talk  was 

spent 
Pro  an'  con  an'  vivy  vocy  what  Thanksgivin'  reely 

meant; 
An'  I'll  bet  a  worMn'  saddle  'gainst  a  pa'r  o'  boss's 

shoes 
That  there  never  was  another  sich  a  scatterin'  o' 

views. 


152  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Texas  Tony  thought  'twas  taught  him  when  he 

went  to  Sunday  school, 
In  the  days  when  he  was  swimmin'  in  the  Baptis' 

.  pious  pool, 
That  it  was  a  celebration  that  was  started  on  the 

dock 
When  the  Scribes  an'  Pharisees  was  landed  onto 

Plymouth  Rock. 
Bronco  Billy  said  he  reckoned  Tex  had  got  his 

stories  mixed, 
That  his  mem'ry  wheels  had  run  too  long  without 

a-bein' fixed; 
That  the  day,  if  he  remembered,  was  a  day  o' 

jubilee 

In  remembrance  of  Abe  Lincoln  settin'  all  the  nig- 
gers free. 

Brocky  Jim,  from  Arizony,  begged  to  differ,  sayin' 

he 

In  his  younger  days  had  wasted  lots  o'  time  on  his- 
tory; 
An'  the  day  was  celebrated  in  thanksgivin'  fer 

the  change 
When   the    Revolution   fellers    drifted    off   King 

George's  range. 
Lengthy  Jones  an'  Watt  McGovern  an'  the  Rio 

Grandy  Kid 
Coincided    in    believin',  as    the  present  writer 

did, 
It  was  jest  a  yearly  epock  to  remind  us  o'  the 

day 
When  Columbus  happened  on  us  in  a  onexpected 

way. 


THREE-BLOCK  TOM  153 

Uncle  Dick,  the  ol'  boss  'rangier,  sot  an'  smoked 

his  pipe  till  all 
O'  the  fellers  with  the  question  then  at  stake  had 

tuk  a  fall, 
An'  when  asked  fer  his  opinion  o'  the  matter  said 

that  he 

Had  his  idee  o'  the  objeck  o'  the  yearly  jubilee: 
'T  was  a  day  when  all  the  fellers  so  inclined  could 

show  their  thanks 
Fer  whatever  they'd  a  mind  to  by  a-fillin'  up  their 

tanks 
Till  their  legs  got  weak  an'  weary  from  a-carryin' 

the  load  — 
He  had  spent  the  day  in  Denver  an'  he  reckoned 

that  he  knowed. 


THREE-BLOCK  TOM 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

We  was  trailin'  some  stolen  cattle 
In  the  winter  of  '98, 
From  the  Sierra  Capitanes 
Past  Dry  Red  Lake. 

On  north  to  the  Gran  Quivira, 
Past  the  Malapais, 
Hugging  their  trail  like  leeches 
Rode  Three-Block  Tom  and  I. 

They  passed  Punta  de  Agua, 
Left  Manzanas  on  the  west, 
Estancia  to  the  eastward  — 
They  hardly  stopped  to  rest. 


154  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Here  en  there  we  found  a  calf 
That  had  played  out  en  dropped  behind  — 
They  were  making  thirty  miles  a  day, 
Driving  like  the  wind. 

We  caught  up  with  them  at  Cerillos, 
On  the  T.P.  Road; 
Driv'  'em  plain  out  of  the  country, 
Expecting  there  to  load. 

But  somehow  the  rustlers  got  wind  of  us, 
En  quit  the  cattle  there, 
En  though  we  hunted  for  several  days 
We  could  n't  find  the  pair. 

At  last  we  got  instructions 
From  the  supreme  boss, 
To  ship  to  Kansas  City 
To  Clay,  Robinson  &  Ross. 

But  when  I  commenced  a-loadin', 
I  found  Tom  was  n't  there; 
A  puncher  told  me  he  was  in  Lamy, 
Loaded  up  fer  fair. 

So  I  hired  the  two-horse  wagon 
En  set  out  that  night  — 
When  I  found  Old  Tom  in  Lamy, 
He  was  sure  some  sight. 

He  had  centipedes  and  rattlers, 
Gila  monsters  by  the  score, 
Puttin'  them  through  their  paces 
On  Jon  Pflueger's  barroom  fioor. 


THREE-BLOCK  TOM  i5S 

Well,  at  last  I  got  him  headed 
Fer  the  loadin'  pens, 
En  right  there,  friend  neighbors, 
When  my  trouble  it  began. 

For  he  would  n't  make  a  wiggle 
Till  I'd  bought  a  few  drinks  more; 
With  his  jug  hugged  up  tight  in  his  arms 
I  got  him  out  the  door. 

That  puncher  knew  more  history 
Of  the  insect  race  from  A  to  Z 
Than  any  Boston  high-brow 
Who  held  an  L.F.D. 

So  discoursin'  on  their  merits 
En  to  give  him  time  to  think, 
He'd  come  out  with  a  suggestion 
That  all  hands  take  a  drink. 

Besides  the  three  cars  loaded, 
We  had  'bout  a  half-car  more, 
So  I  dumped  Tom  among  the  cattle 
En  shut  the  stock-car  door. 

So  him  en  the  jug  of  whiskey 
Pulled  out  on  the  branch; 
I  never  thought  no  more  about  him 
Till  I  got  back  to  the  ranch. 

Old  Andy  showed  me  a  telegram 
From  the  firm  in  K.C.  — 
The  cattle  had  arrived  all  safely. 
As  fine  as  they  could  be; 


156  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Included  in  the  shipment 
Was  a  cowboy  called  Tom  L.  — 
Said  he  was  a  fightin'  cow-puncher, 
En  his  middle  name  was  Hell; 

He  wanted  a  return  ticket 

Back  on  the  line, 

Or  he'd  lick  the  whole  Block  outfit, 

One  at  a  time  I 


TOP  HAND 

From  Jim  Brownfield,  Crow  Flat,  New  Mexico,  winter 
of  1899.  Authorship  credited  to  Frank  Rooney;  written 
about  1877.  This  song  has  been  expurgated  by  me,  as 
all  the  old-timers  know  that  as  originally  sung  around  the 
cow-camps  it  could  not  have  been  printed,  as  it  would 
have  burned  up  the  paper  on  which  it  was  written.  Jim, 
do  you  remember  how  you  had  to  force  those  fresh  eggs 
down  and  the  jug  said,  "Goo-Goo"?  I  published  this 
song  under  the  title  of  "  Top  Hand  "  in  my  earlier  edition. 
The  old  name,  which  all  cow-punchers  remember,  did 
not  sound  good  in  print. 

While  you're  all  so  frisky,  I'll  sing  a  little  song: 
Think  a  horn  of  whiskey  will  help  the  thing  along, 
It's  all  about  the  Top  Hand  when  he's  busted  flat, 
Bumming  round  town,  in  his  Mexicana  hat. 
He'd  laid  up  all  winter  and  his  pocket-book  is  flat. 
His  clothes  are  all  tatters,  but  he  don't  mind  that. 

See  him  in  town  with  a  crowd  that  he  knows 
Rolling  cigarettes  an*  a-smoking  through  his  nose. 
First  thing  he  tells  you,  he  owns  a  certain  brand, 
Leads  you  to  think  he  is  a  daisy  hand. 


TOP  HAND  157 


Next  thing  he  tells  you  'bout  his  trip  up  the 

trail, 
All  the  way  up  to  Kansas  to  finish  up  his  tale. 

Put  him  on  a  horse,  he's  a  dandy  hand  to  work; 
Put  him  in  the  branding-pen,  he's  dead  sure  to 

shirk. 
With  natural-leaf  tobacco  in  the  pockets  of  his 

vest 

He  '11  tell  you  his  Californy  pants  are  the  best. 
He's  handled  lots  of  cattle,  hasn't  any  fears, 
Can  draw  his  sixty  dollars,  for  the  balance  of  his 

years. 

Put  him  on  herd,  he's  a-cussin'  all  day; 
Anything  tries,  it 's  sure  to  get  away. 
When  you  have  round-up  he  tells  it  all  about 
He's  going  to  do  the  cuttin'  and  you  can't  keep 

him  out. 

If  anything  goes  wrong  he  lays  it  on  the  screws, 
Says  the  lazy  devils  were  trying  to  take  a  snooze. 

When  he  meets  a  greener  he  ain't  afraid  to  rig, 
Stands  him  on  a  chuck-box  and  makes  him  dance 

a  jig, 
Waives  a  loaded  cutter,  makes  him  sing   and 

shout, 
He 's  a  regular  Ben  Thompson,  when  the  boss  ain't 

about. 
When  the  boss  ain't  about  he  leaves  his  leggins  in 

camp, 
He  swears  a  man  who  wears  them  is  worse  than  a 

tramp. 


158  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Says  he's  not  caring  for  wages  that  he  earns, 
For  dad's  rich  in  Texas  'n*  got   wagonloads  to 

burn; 
But  when  he  goes  to  town  he's  sure  to  take 

it  in; 

He's  always  been  dreaded  wherever  he  has  been. 
He  rides  a  fancy  horse,  he  is  a  favorite  man, 
Can  get  more  credit  than  a  common  waddie  can. 

When  you  ship  the  cattle  he's  bound  to  go  along 
To  keep  the  boss  from  drinking  and  to  see  that 

nothing  's  wrong; 

Wherever  he  goes,  catch  on  to  his  game, 
He  likes  to  be  called  with  a  handle  to  his  name; 
He's  always  primping  with  a  pocket  looking-glass; 
From  the  top  to  the  bottom  he 's  a  holy  jackass. 

THE  U  S  U  RANGE 

Received  this  song  from  Clabe  Merchant,  Black  River, 
New  Mexico. 

Come,  cowboys,  and  listen  to  my  song; 
I 'm  in  hopes  I '11  please  you  and  not  keep  you  long; 
I  '11  sing  you  of  things  you  may  think  strange 
About  West  Texas  and  the  U  S  U  range. 

You  may  go  to  Stamford  and  there  see  a  man 
Who  wears  a  white  shirt  and  is  asking  for  hands; 
You  may  ask  him  for  work  and  he'll  answer  you 

short; 

He  will  hurry  you  up,  for  he  wants  you  to  start. 
He  will  put  you  in  a  wagon  and  be  off  in  the  rain, 
You  will  go  upon  Tongue  River  on  the  U  S  U  range. 


U  S  U  RANGE  159 

You  will  drive  up  to  the  ranch  and  there  you  will 

stop; 

It's  a  little  sod  house  with  dirt  all  on  top. 
You  will  ask  what  it  is  and  they  will  tell  you  out 

plain 
That  it  is  the  ranch  house  on  the  U  S  U  range. 

You  will  go  in  the  house  and  he  will  begin  to  ex- 
plain; 

You  will  see  some  blankets  rolled  up  on  the  floor; 

You  may  ask  what  it  is  and  they  will  tell  you  out 
plain 

That  it  is  the  bedding  on  the  U  S  U  range. 

You  are  up  in  the  morning  at  the  daybreak 
To  eat  cold  beef  and  U  S  U  steak, 
And  out  to  your  work  no  matter  if  it 's  rain  — 
And  that  is  the  life  on  the  U  S  U  range. 

You  work  hard  all  day  and  come  in  at  night, 
And  turn  your  horse  loose,  for  they  say  it's  all  right, 
And  set  down  to  supper  and  begin  to  complain 
Of  the  chuck  that  you  eat  on  the  U  S  U  range. 

The  grub  that  you  get  is  beans  and  cold  rice 
And  U  S  U  steak  cooked  up  very  nice ; 
And  if  you  don't  like  that,  you  need  n't  complain, 
For  that 's  what  you  get  on  the  U  S  U  range. 

Now,  kind  friends,  I  must  leave  you,  I  no  longer 

can  remain, 

I  hope  I  have  pleased  you  and  given  you  no  pain. 
But  when  I  am  gone  don't  think  me  strange, 
For  I  have  been  a  cow-puncher  on  the  U  S  U. 


160  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 


WESTERN  LIFE 

Appeared  in  "  Den  ver  Republican"  Accredited  to  Bronco 
Sue,  who  I  was  told  wrote  it. 

I  buckled  on  a  brace  of  guns  and  sallied  to  Wy- 
oming, 

And  thought  I'd  kill  some  Indians  ere  day  had 
reached  the  gloaming; 

But  the  first  red-skin  that  came  to  view  upon  the 
reservation 

Said:  "Ah,  my  dear  old  college  chum,  I  give  you 
salutation!" 

For  Western  life  ain't  wild  and  woolly  now; 

They  are  up  on  Wagner,  Ibsen, 

And  adore  the  girls  of  Gibson  — 

For  Western  life  ain't  wild  and  woolly  now! 

I  struck  a  little  prairie  town  and  saw  two  cowboys 

greet, 
And  thought :  "  Now  there  '11  be  powder  burnt  when 

these  two  bad  men  meet"; 
But  the  first  one  says  to  Number  Two:  "You  beat 

me,  Dick,  at  tennis: 
Now  come  along,  old  chap,  and  read  the  finish  of 

'Pendennis.'" 

For  Western  life  ain't  wild  and  woolly  now; 

The  cowboy  knows  a  lot  besides  more  cow; 

He  can  two-step,  do  hemstitching, 

And  do  hay  or  baseball  pitching  — 

For  Western  life  ain't  wild  and  woolly  now! 


WESTWARD  HO!  161 

So  in  despair  I  turned  into  a  busy  Western  town, 
And  hoped  to  see  the  gun-fighters  a-mowing  of  men 

down; 
But  while  I  loitered  on  the  street  to  see  blood  by 

the  flagon, 
I  fell  before  a  green-goods  man  and  then  a  devil 

wagon. 

For  Western  life  ain't  wild  and  woolly  now; 

There  is  no  daily  gunpowder  powwow; 

There  are  bunco  games  galore 

And  the  chauffeur  holds  the  floor  — 

But  Western  life  ain't  wild  and  woolly  now! 


WESTWARD  HO! 

Heard  a  horse -wrangler  named  Singleton  sing  this  on  the 
Delaware,  at  point  of  the  Guadalupe  Mountains. 

I  love  not  Colorado 
Where  the  faro  table  grows, 
And  down  the  desperado 
The  rippling  Bourbon  flows; 

Nor  seek  I  fair  Montana 
Of  bowie-lunging  fame; 
The  pistol  ring  of  fair  Wyoming 
I  leave  to  nobler  game. 

Sweet  poker  haunted  Kansas 

In  vain  allures  the  eye; 

The  Nevada  rough  has  charms  enough, 

Yet  its  blandishments  I  fly. 


i6a  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Shall  Arizona  woo  me 

Where  the  meek  Apache  hides? 

Or  New  Mexico  where  natives  grow 

With  arrow-proof  insides? 

Nay,  'tis  where  the  grizzlies  wander 

And  the  lonely  diggers  roam, 

And  the  grim  Chinese  from  the  squatter  flees, 

That  I'll  make  my  humble  home. 

I'll  chase  the  wild  tarantula 
And  the  fierce  coyote  I  '11  dare, 
And  the  locust  grim,  I  '11  battle  him, 
In  his  native  wildwood  lair. 

Or  I'll  seek  the  gulch  deserted, 
And  dream  of  the  wild  red  man, 
And  I  '11  build  a  cot  on  a  corner  lot 
And  get  rich  as  soon  as  I  can. 


WHAT'S  BECOME  OF  THE  PUNCHERS? 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

What's  become  of  the  punchers 

We  rode  with  long  ago  ? 

The  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  cowboys 

We  all  of  us  used  to  know? 

Sure,  some  were  killed  by  lightning, 
Some  when  the  cattle  run, 
Others  were  killed  by  horses, 
And  some  with  the  old  six-gun. 


WHAT'S  BECOME  OF  THE  PUNCHERS?     163 

Those  that  worked  on  the  round-up, 
Those  of  the  branding-pen, 
Those  who  went  out  on  the  long  trail  drive 
And  never  returned  again. 

We  know  of  some  who  have  prospered, 
We  hear  of  some  who  are  broke, 
My  old  pardner  made  millions  in  Tampa, 
While  I  've  got  my  saddle  in  soak  I 

Sleeping  and  working  together, 
Eatin'  old  "  Cussie's  good  chuck," 
Riding  in  all  kinds  of  weather, 
Playing  in  all  kinds  of  luck; 

Bragging  about  our  top-hosses, 
Each  puncher  ready  to  bet 
His  horse  could  outrun  the  boss's, 
Or  any  old  horse  you  could  get ! 

Scott  lies  in  Tularosa, 

Elmer  Price  lies  near  Santa  Fe, 

While  Randolph  sits  here  by  the  fireside 

With  a  "  flat-face  "  on  his  knee. 

'Gene  Rhodes  is  among  the  high-brows, 
A-writin'  up  the  West, 
But  I  know  a  lot  of  doin's 
That  he  never  has  confessed! 

He  used  to  ride  'em  keerless 
In  the  good  old  days 
When  we  both  worked  together 
In  the  San  Andres ! 


164  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Building  big  loops  we  called  "  blockers," 

Spinning  the  rope  in  the  air, 

Never  a  cent  in  our  pockets, 

But  what  did  a  cow-puncher  care? 

I'm  tired  of  riding  this  trail,  boys, 
Dead  tired  of  riding  alone  — 
B  'lieve  I  '11  head  old  Button  for  Texas, 
Towards  my  old  Palo  Pinto  home  I 


WHEN  BOB  GOT  THRO  WED 

Author  unknown.  Heard  it  sung  in  Arizona  at  Hachita 
by  a  puncher  named  Livingston. 

That  time  when  Bob  got  throwed 
I  thought  I  sure  would  bust; 
I  liked  to  died  a-laffin' 
To  see  him  chewing  dust. 

He  crawled  on  that  pinto  bronc 
And  hit  him  with  a  quirt, 
The  next  thing  that  he  knew 
He  was  wallerin'  in  the  dirt. 

Yes,  it  might  'a'  killed  him, 
I  heard  the  hard  ground  pop, 
But  to  see  if  he  was  injured 
You  bet  I  didn't  stop. 

I  jest  rolled  on  the  ground 
And  began  to  kick  and  yell; 
It  liked  to  tickled  me  to  death 
To  see  how  hard  he  fell. 


WHEN  BOB  GOT  THROWED  165 

'T  war  n't  more  than  a  week  ago 
That  I  myself  got  throwed; 
But  that  was  from  a  meaner  horse 
Than  old  Bob  ever  rode. 

D'  you  reckon  Bob  looked  sad  and  said 
"I  hope  that  you  ain't  hurt"? 
Naw;  he  just  laughed  and  laughed 
To  see  me  chewin'  dirt. 

I've  been  prayin'  ever  since 
For  his  horse  to  turn  his  pack, 
And  when  he  done  it  I  'd  'a'  laughed 
If  it  had  broke  his  back. 

So  I  was  still  a-howlin' 

When  Bob  he  got  up  lame; 

He  seen  his  horse  had  run  clear  off, 

And  so  for  me  he  came. 

He  first  chucked  sand  into  my  eyes, 
With  a  rock  he  rubbed  my  head, 
Then  he  twisted  both  my  arms: 
"  Now,  go  fetch  that  hoss,"  he  said. 

So  I  went  and  fetched  him  back, 
But  I  was  feelin'  good  all  day; 
For  I  sure  enough  do  love  to  see 
A  fellow  get  throwed  that  way. 


166          SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

WHOSE  OLD  COW? 

By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

Written  at  Roswell,  New  Mexico,  1899.  Add  was  one  of 
the  best  cow-hands  on  Pecos  River.  Everybody  knew  him. 
When  he  got  married  each  cow-man  wanted  to  give  him  a 
present,  no  one  knowing  what  the  other  man  had  sent 
him,  "as  ranches  were  far  apart."  He  received  nineteen 
stoves  and  ranges  for  wedding  presents.  This  song  was  in 
my  copyrighted  book  published  in  1908. 

'T  was  the  end  of  the  round-up  the  last  day  of 

June, 

Or  maybe  July,  I  don't  just  remember, 
Or  it  might  have  been  August,  't  was  sometime 

ago, 
Or  perhaps  't  was  the  first  of  September.] 

Anyhow,  't  was  the  round-up  we  had  at  Mayou, 

On  the  lightning  rod's  range  near  Cayo ; 

There  was  some  twenty  wagons  "more  or  less" 

camped  about 
On  the  temporal  in  the  canon. 

First  night  we'd  no  cattle,  so  we  only  stood  guard 
On  the  horses,  somewhere  about  two  hundred  head; 
So  we  side-lined  and  hoppled,  we  belled  and  we 

staked, 
Loosed  our  hot  rolls  and  fell  into  bed. 

Next  morning  'bout  daybreak  we  started  our  work; 
Our  horses,  like  possums,  felt  fine, 
Each  one  "tendin*  kitten,"  none  trying  to  shirk, 
So  the  round-up  got  on  in  good  time. 


WHOSE  OLD  COW?  167 

Weil,  we  worked  for  a  week  till  the  country  was 

clear 

An'  the  boss  said,  "Now  boys  we'll  stay  here; 
We'll  carve  and  we'll  trim  'em  an'  start  out  a 

herd 
Up  the  east  trail  from  old  Abilene." 

Next  morning  all  on  herd  an'  but  two  with  the  cut, 
An'  the  boss  on  Piute  carving  fine, 
'Til  he  rode  down  his  horse  and  had  to  pull  out, 
An'  a  new  man  went  in  to  clean  up. 

Well,  after  each  outfit  had  worked  on  the  band 
There  was  only  three  head  of  them  left, 
When  Nig  Add  from  the  L  F  D  outfit  rode  in, 
A  dictionary  on  earmarks  an'  brands. 

He  cut  the  two  head  out  where  they  belonged, 

But  when  the  last  cow  stood  there  alone, 

Add's  eyes  bulged  so  he  didn't  know  just  what  to 

say, 
'Ceptin'  "Boss,   dere's  sumpin'   here  monstrous 

wrong ! 

"  White  folks  smarter  'n  Add,  an'  maybe  I  'se  wrong' 
But  here  's  six  months'  wages  dar  I  '11  give 
If  any  one  '11  tell  me  when  I  reads  de  mark 
To  who  dis  long-horned  cow  belongs. 

"Left  ear  swaller  fork  an'  de  undercrop, 
Overslope  in  right  ear  an'  de  underbit, 
Hole  punched  in  center,  an'  de  jinglebob 
Under  ha'f  crop,  an*  de  slash  an'  split. 


168  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

"She's  got  O  Block  an'  Lightnin'  Rod, 
Nine  Forty-Six  an'  A  Bar  Eleven, 
Rafter  Cross  an'  de  double  prod, 
Terrapin  an'  Ninety-Seven; 

"  Half  Circle  A  an'  Diamond  D, 
Four-Cross  L  an'  Three  P  Z; 
B  W  I,  Bar  X  V  V, 
Bar  N  Cross  an'  A  L  C. 

"  So,  if  none  o'  you  punchers  claims  dis  cow, 
Mr.  Stock  'Sociation  need  n't  get  'larmed, 
So  old  nigger  Add,  just  brand  her  now, 
For  one  more  brand  or  less  won't  do  no  harm." 

WINDY  BILL 

Sung  first  to  me  by  John  Collier,  Cornudas  Mountain, 
New  Mexico,  July,  1899.  Appeared  first  in  my  previous 
copyrighted  book. 

Windy  Bill  was  a  Texas  man, 

And  he  could  rope,  you  bet; 
Talk  of  the  steer  he  could  n't  tie  down 

Hadn't  sorter  been  born  yet; 
The  boys  they  knew  of  an  old  black  steer, 

A  sort  of  an  old  outlaw, 
Who  ran  down  in  the  bottom 

Just  at  the  foot  of  the  draw. 

This  slim  black  steer  had  stood  his  ground 
With  punchers  from  everywhere; 

The  boys  they  bet  Bill  two  to  one 
He  could  n't  quite  get  there. 


WINDY  BILL  169 


So  Bill  brought  up  his  old  cow-horse  — 
His  wethers  and  back  were  sore  — 

Prepared  to  tackle  this  old  black  steer 
Who  ran  down  in  the  draw. 

With  his  grazin'  bits  and  sand-stacked  tree, 

His  chaps  and  taps  to  boot, 
His  old  maguey  tied  hard  and  fast, 

Went  out  to  tackle  the  brute. 
Bill  sorter  sauntered  around  him  first; 

The  steer  began  to  paw, 
Poked  up  his  tail  high  in  the  air, 

And  lit  down  in  the  draw. 

The  old  cow-horse  flew  at  him 

Like  he  'd  been  eatin'  corn, 
And  Bill  he  landed  his  old  maguey 

Around  old  blackie's  horns. 
The  old-time  horse  he  stopped  dead-still; 

The  cinches  broke  like  straw; 
Both  the  sand-stacked  tree  and  old  maguey, 

Went  driftin'  down  the  draw. 

Bill  landed  in  a  big  rock-pile; 

His  hands  and  face  were  scratched; 
He  'lowed  he  always  could  tie  a  steer 

But  guessed  he  'd  found  his  match. 
Paid  up  his  bet  like  a  little  man, 

Without  a  bit  of  jaw, 
And  said  old  blackie  was  the  boss 

Of  all  down  in  the  draw. 

There 's  a  moral  to  my  song,  boys, 
Which  I  hope  you  can  see; 


170  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

Whenever  you  start  to  tackle  a  steer 
Never  tie  hard  your  maguey. 

Put  on  your  dalebueltas, 
'Cordin'  to  California  law, 

And  you  will  never  see  your  old  rim-fires 
Driftin*  down  the  draw. 

WOMEN  OUTLAWS 
By  N.  Howard  Thorp 

There 's  a  touch  of  human  pathos, 
A  glamour  of  the  West, 
Round  the  names  of  women  outlaws 
Who  have  now  gone  to  their  rest  — 

Bronco  Sue,  Belle  Star,  and  Shudders, 
Pike  Kate,  and  Altar  Doane, 
Calamity  Jane,  Sister  Cummings, 
And  the  Rose  of  Cimmaron. 

You  've  all  oft  heard  the  saying, 
"I'd  go  to  Hell  for  you!" 
About  these  women  outlaws 
That  saying  was  too  true. 

Each  left  her  home  and  dear  one 
For  the  man  she  loved  the  best, 
Close  by  his  side  on  many  a  wild  ride 
Through  the  mountains  of  the  West. 

They've  played  their  parts  in  Western  Drama, 
On  the  great  unscreened  Western  stage, 
Where  the  mountains  were  their  platform, 
Their  stage-setting  rocks  and  sage. 


THE  ZEBRA  DUN  171 

Hunted  by  many  a  posse, 
Always  on  the  run, 
Every  man's  hand  against  them, 
They  fought,  and  often  won. 

With  a  price  upon  each  head, 
They'd  have  to  fight  and  stand, 
And  die  as  game  as  any  man 
With  a  gun  in  either  hand. 

My  hat  off  to  you,  women  outlaws, 

For  you  did  what  you  thought  best, 

And  the  same  wild  blood  that  coursed  your  veins 

Has  settled  up  the  West. 

Whether  right  or  wrong,  your  spirit 
Knew  not  the  word  of  fear  — 
And  't  is  the  dauntless  courage  of  your  kind 
That  bred  the  pioneer  1 


THE  ZEBRA  DUN 

First  heard  the  song  sung  by  Randolph  Reynolds,  Car- 
rizozo  Flats,  in  1890. 

We  were  camped  on  the  plains  at  the  head  of 

the  Cimarron 
When  along  came  a  stranger  and  stopped  to  arger 

some. 
He  looked  so  very  foolish  that  we  began  to  look 

around, 
We  thought  he  was  a  greenhorn  that  had  just 

'scaped  from  town. 


172  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

We  asked  if  he] had  been  to  breakfast;  he  hadn't 

had  a  smear; 
So  we  opened  up  the  chuck-box  and  bade  him  have 

his  share. 
He  took  a  cup  of  coffee  and  some  biscuits  and  some 

beans, 
And  then  began  to  talk  and  tell  about  foreign  kings 

and  queens,  — 

About  the  Spanish  War  and  fighting  on  the  seas 
With  guns  as  big  as  steers  and  ramrods  big  as 

trees,  — 
And  about  old  Paul  Jones,  a  mean-fighting  son  of  a 

gun, 
Who  was  the  grittiest  cuss  that  ever  pulled  a  gun. 

Such  an  educated  feller,  his  thoughts  just  came  in 
herds, 

He  astonished  all  them  cowboys  with  them  jaw- 
breaking  words. 

He  just  kept  on  talking  till  he  made  the  boys  all  sick, 

And  they  began  to  look  around  just  how  to  play 
a  trick. 

He  said  he  had  lost  his  job  upon  the  Santa  Fe 
And  was  going  across  the  plains  to  strike  the  7-D. 
He  did  n't  say  how  come  it,  some  trouble  with  the 

boss, 
But  said  he  'd  like  to  borrow  a  nice  fat  saddle  hoss. 

This  tickled  all  the  boys  to  death;  they  laughed  'way 

down  in  their  sleeves,  — 
"  We  will  lend  you  a  horse  just  as  fresh  and  fat  as 

you  please." 


THE  ZEBRA.  DUN  173 

Shorty  grabbed  a  lariat  and  roped  the  Zebra  Dun 
And  turned  him  over  to  the  stranger  and  waited 
for  the  fun. 

Old  Dunny  was  a  rocky  outlaw  that  had  grown  so 

awful  wild 
That  he  could  paw  the  white  out  of  the  moon 

every  jump  for  a  mile. 
Old   Dunny  stood  right  still  — as  if   he    didn't 

know  — 
Until  he  was  saddled  and  ready  for  to  go. 

When  the  stranger  hit  the  saddle,  Old  Dunny  quit 

the  earth,  %$?. 

And  traveled  right  straight  up  for  all  that  he  was 

worth. 
A-pitching  and    a-squealing,    a-having   wall-eyed 

fits, 
His  hind  feet  perpendicular,  his  front  ones  in  the 

bits. 

We  could  see  the  tops  of  the  mountains  under 

Dunny  every  jump, 
But  the  stranger  he  was  growed  there  just  like 

the  camel's  hump; 
The  stranger  sat  upon  him  and  curled  his  black 

mustache, 
Just  like  a  summer  boarder  waiting  for  his  hash. 

He  thumped  him  in  the  shoulders  and  spurred 

him  when  he  whirled, 
To  show  them  flunky  punchers  that  he  was  the  wolf 

of  the  world. 


174  SONGS  OF  THE  COWBOYS 

When  the  stranger  had  dismounted  once  more  upon 

the  ground, 
We  knew  he  was  a  thoroughbred  and  not  a  gent 

from  town; 

The  boss,  who  was  standing  round  watching  of  the 

show, 
Walked  right  up  to  the  stranger  and  told  him  he 

need  n't  go,  — 
"  If  you  can  use  the  lasso  like  you  rode  old  Zebra 

Dun, 
You  are  the  man  I  've  been  looking  for  ever  since 

the  year  one." 

Oh,  he  could  twirl  the  lariat,  and  he  didn't  do  it 

slow; 
He  could  catch  them  fore  feet  nine  out  of  ten  for 

any  kind  of  dough. 
There's  one  thing  and  a  shore  thing  I've  learned 

since  I  've  been  born, 
That  every  educated  feller  ain't  a  plumb  greenhorn. 


GLOSSARY 


GLOSSARY 


Baquero  (vaquero) 

Blocker 

Bronco 

Broom'y,  broom  tails 

Buckaroo 

Caballada 

Cabresto 

Chaps,  chaparreras 

Cincha 

Corral 

Crinolina 

Cuarta 
Dale  vuelta 

Freno 

Grazin  bits 

Jaquima 

Kack 

Lasso 

Latigo 

Maguey 

Manada 

Maverick 

Mestefio 

Montura 

Morral 

Mustang 

Outlaw 


A  cowpuncher 

A  large  loop  made  with  a  rope 

An  untamed  horse 

Range  mares 

A  cowpuncher 

A  bunch  of  horses 

A  rope 

Leather  legging' 

A  girth  for  saddle 

A  pen  or  enclosure 

Hoop-skirt.    An  expression  used 

to  describe  spinning  a  rope 
A  whip 
Used    in    giving    turns    of   rope 

around  saddle  horn 
A  bridle 

A  snaffle  or  easy  curb 
A  halter 
A  saddle 

A  loop,  or  to  catch 
A  strap  from  cinch  to  saddle 
A  Mexican  catch  rope 
A  bunch  of  mares 
An  unbranded  anirnal 
A  wild  horse 
A  saddle 
A  feed  bag 
A  wild  horse 
A  horse  which  has  been  spoiled  hi 

breaking 


178  GLOSSARY 

Reata  A  rope 

Remuda  A  bunch  of  saddle  horses  or  relay 

of  horses 

Rodeo  A  round-up 

Slick  An  unbranded  calf 

Taps,  tapaderas  Stirrup  coverings 

Tarp  A  canvas  bed  sheet 

Vaquero  A  cowpuncher 

Waddie  A  cowpuncher 

Willows  Range  mares 

Wrangler  A  man  who  looks  after  and  outfits 

saddle  horses 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


A  cowboy's  life  is  a  dreary,  dreary  life,  61 

A  Texas  cowboy  lay  down  on  a  barroom  floor,  79 

All  day  long  on  the  prairies  I  ride,  4 

An  ancient  long-horned  bovine,  88 

As  I  walked  out  in  the  streets  of  Laredo,  41 

As  I  walked  out  one  morning  for  pleasure,  70 

At  midnight,  when  the  cattle  are  sleeping,  46 

Bustin'  down  the  canyon,  6 

Come,  all  of  you  people,  I  pray  you  draw  near,  i 
Come,  all  you  jolly  cowboys  that  follow  the  bronco  steer, 

53 
Come,  all  you  melancholy  folks,  wherever  you  may  be, 

121 

Come,  all  you  old  cow-punchers,  a  story  I  will  tell,  99 
Come,  all  you  old-tuners,  and  listen  to  my  song,  84 
Come,  all  you  young  waddies,  I  '11  sing  you  a  song,  131 
Come  along,  boys,  and  listen  to  my  tale,  109 
Come,  cowboys,  and  listen  to  my  song,  158 
Come  on,  all  you  cow-punchers,  91 

Daddy  come  from  Brownsville,  94 

Dan  Taylor  is  a  rollicking  cuss,  57 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  O  L  C  steer,  21 

Driftin'  along  the  rim-rock,  old  Camp-Robber  and  1, 116 

Every  tune  I  see  an  old  paint  horse,  I  think  of  you,  1 19 
For  this  is  the  law  of  the  Western  range,  92 
Good-bye,  Old  Paint,  I'm  a-leavin'  Cheyenne,  118 
He  ca-su-ied  wid  me,  most  ruinous,  106 


182  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

He  was  little  en  peaked  en  thin,  en  narry  a  no-accounl 

horse,  142 

His  mammy  's  a  burro,  his  daddy  's  a  horse,  104 
Hush-a-by,  Long  Horn,  your  pards  are  all  sleepin',  65 

I  buckled  on  a  brace  of  guns  and  sallied  to  Wyoming,  160 
I  can  take  the  wildest  bronco  in  the  tough  old  woolly 

West,  71 

I  love  not  Colorado,  161 
I  'm  a  howler  from  the  prairies  of  the  West!  9 
I  struck  the  trail  in  seventy-nine,  69 
I  thought  one  spring,  just  for  fun,  146 
I  took  a  trip  this  summer  to  the  market,  3 
I  Ve  been  upon  the  prairie,  n 
1,'ve  cooked  you  hi  the  strongest  gypsum  water,  68 
I've  swum  the  Colorado  where  she  runs  down  close  to 

hell,  66 
In  readin'  the  story  of  early  days,  it's  a  cause  of  much 

personal  pain,  101 
In  seventy-six,  or  thereabouts,  when  the  Black  Hills 

made  the  strike,  115 
It  was  chuck-tune  on  the  round-up,  and  we  heard  "Old 

Doughy  "  shout,  24          * 

Just  one  year  ago  to-day,  93 

Last  night,  as  I  lay  on  the  prairie,  40 
List,  all  you  California  boys,  18 

Little  gal,  I  'm  not  a  singer;  if  I  were  I  'd  sing  to  you,  98 
Little  Joe,  the  wrangler,  will  never  wrangle  more,  96 
Living  long  lives  hi  Sonora,  nested  'mongst  mountains 
high,  63 

Morn's  breakin'  over  de  ole  Ranch  before  de  moon's 

gone  'way,  122 
My  country,  't  is  of  thee,  105 
My  foot  in  the  stirrup,  my  pony  won't  stand,  119 
My  love  is  a  rider,  wild  broncos  he  breaks,  14 
My  lover  is  a  cowboy,  he 's  brave  and  kind  and  true,  86 

Never  was  no  gal  like  Mollie,  48 

Now,  O  Lord,  please  lend  me  thine  ear,  52 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  183 

O  Lord,  I  aint  never  lived  where  churches  grow,  47 

Oh,  bury  me  not  on  the  lone  prairie,  62 

Oh,  come  en  ride  the  Western  range  along  with  Blue  en 

me,  67 

Oh,  I  am  a  Texas  cowboy,  148 
Oh,  music  springs  under  the  galloping  hoofs,  129 
Oh,  slow  up,  dogies,  quit  your  roving  round,  108 
Oh,  the  prairie  dogs  are  barking,  30 
Oh,  we're  up  in  the  morning  ere  breaking  of  the  day,  132 
One  pleasant  summer  day  it  came  a  storm  of  snow,  58 

Parson,  I  'm  a  maverick,  just  runnin'  loose  an'  grazin',  55 

Sam  Bass  was  born  in  Indiana,  it  was  his  native  home, 

135 

Some  time  ago  —  two  weeks  or  more,  31 
Spanish  is  the  lovin'  tongue,  10 

'T  was  a  calm  and  peaceful  evening  hi  a  camp  called 

Arapahoe,  15 

'T  was  the  end  of  the  round-up  the  last  day  of  June,  i6C 
'T  was  this  time  jest  a  year  ago  on  this  Thanksgivin'  Day, 

12 

Ten  thousand  Texas  Rangers  are  laughin'  fit  to  kill,  145 
That  tune  when  Bob  got  throwed,  164 
The  bawl  of  a  steer,  44 
The  bawl  of  a  steer  to  a  cowboy's  ear  is  music  of  sweetest 

strain,  140 

The  boss  he  took  a  trip  to  France,  60 
The  Devil  we  're  told  in  hell  was  chained,  77 
The  outlaw  stands  with  blindfold  eyes,  113 
The  scream  of  the  outlaw  split  the  air,  138 
There  's  a  touch  of  human  pathos,  170 
There  was  a  brave  old  Texan,  102 
There  was  a  rich  old  rancher  who  lived  in  the  country  by, 

134 

They  don't  drive  the  Overland  Stage  no  more,  124 
Through  progress  of  the  railroads  our  occupation  's  gone, 

20 

Through  rocky  arroyos  so  dark  and  so  deep,  23 
Twelve  years  have  I  lived  hi  this  desolate  place,  130 


184  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

'Way  out  in  Western  Texas,  where  the  Clear  Fork's 

waters  flow,  35 
'Way  high  up  hi  the  Mohiones,  among  the  mountain-tops, 

81 
We  had  all  made  the  guess  by  the  cut  of  his  dress  an'  the 

tenderfoot  style  that  he  slung,  49 
We  was  settin'  'round  the  ranch  house  on  the  last 

Thanksgivin*  Day,  151 
We  was  trailin'  some  stolen  cattle,  153 
We  were  camped  on  the  plains  at  the  head  of  the  Cimar- 

ron,  171 

Well,  old  horse,  you  Ve  brought  me  'cross  the  line,  123 
What 's  become  of  the  punchers,  162 
When  I  think  of  the  last  great  round-up,  75 
When  the  Mormons  drifted  southward,  117 
When  the  sap  comes  up  through  the  cottonwood  roots,  112 
Where  the  old  Fort  Sumner  Barracks  look  down  on  the 

Pecos  wide,  127 
Where  the  Pecos  River  winds  and  turns  in  its  journey  to 

the  sea,  126 

While  you  're  all  so  frisky,  I  '11  sing  a  little  song,  156 
Windy  Bill  was  a  Texas  Man,  168 

You  kin  brag  of  city  caff eys  and  their  trout  from  streams 

and  lakes,  74 
You  may  call  the  cowboy  horned  and  think  him  hard  to 

tame,  34 


JTIit  HiUrrSi&e  £rcss 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U.  S  .  A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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T  /\D  —  JTKTI 

PS 
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